FAGGA MOTO, FAGGA MOTO

Not a race. A trip
Date : 27 November to 11 December 2010
Place : Himalaya National Park

A worrier by nature, I struggle to sleep the night before our flight to Lukla, the start of our fourteen day trek to Everest Base camp.

The first worry is our 05h00 pick up for the 06h15 departure. The second worry is that the flight to Lukla has a reputation.

I would not slept at all if I’d known that Bik, our guide, and his micro taxis would only arrive at 5:50 and, as for the flight, it was only afterwords that I saw some videos on You Tube.

At first light the five of us and Bik squeeze into two taxis and we’re off like bats out of hell, the rucksacks - which have been casually tossed onto the roof racks without tie downs - bouncing all the way.

The cars lack shock breakers and the roads, even the sections that lack potholes, are roughly paved, Each driver has a different idea as to which sequence of alleyways is the shortest. All they have in common is their aspirations to be a rally driver. We – and all our bags - arrive at 6:15 to discover nothing going on.

We are booked in and walk to our Twin Otter aircraft, but all flights to Lukla are delayed due to cloud cover, so we stand around on the tarmac.

There used to be a sign at the airport stating that “ Nepali pilots do not fly in clouds as Nepali clouds have rocks in them”. The truth of which we are to see for ourselves on this very day.

While we wait the sun rises. I inspect the aircraft. It is old. The warning labels on the cowlings are hand painted. The navigation system comprises a car Tom Tom attached to the dashboard with a suction cup. The pilot, “Mr Cool”, an Elvis look alike, drinks coffee from a polystyrene cup that he dumps when the all clear siren sounds. There are several Lukla flights and they all scramble like WWII Spitfire pilots to be first in line.

We pile aboard and we’re off. I sit in the front seat and keep a close watch on Mr Cool and his buddy while I eyeball two sacks of rice piled loosely on the seat next to me. The aircraft whines its way over the Kathmandu suburbs. Kathmandu is far larger than expected, the apartment blocks arranged in random block patterns like a caterpillar plague.

Then we are flying low over the countryside. Except that it is actually not so low because the countryside is already high. The green hills soon give way to green mountains separated by deep valleys. The earth is seriously crumpled. There are homesteads and desperate attempts at survival in the most unlikely and inhospitable places. Everywhere farmers have cut terraces into the mountains, Sometimes an entire mountain is terraced giving it the appearance of an architectural student’s cardboard model.

In the far distance we see the real, snow capped, bare rock mountains of the Himalayas. Then they disappear as our aircraft becomes trapped ever deeper within a steep valley. The aircraft is not pressurised and may not – probably could not – fly any higher.

Then I notice that we have a dilemma. The valley is coming to an end and there is no way the aircraft can either lift is nose to climb out or make a U turn. Then Mr Cool does a 90 degree turn into the mountainside. Luckily an airstrip comes into view. It’s a short one that slopes upward, somewhat likes the eaves of a pagoda, in a wobbly sort of way.

We hit the tarmac within meters of start at the cliff’s edge and immediately the aircraft growls – reverse thrust I believe – as it weaves to and fro in response to the brakes. Seconds later the windscreen is obscured by a solid, man built, stone wall.

I shout “Fagga brake! Fagga more brake!” but the pilot decides to “fagga right rudder” and the aircraft does a sharp right turn which takes care, only just, of the remaining momentum. We shudder to a halt on a small concrete apron in front of the terminal building.

Nobody says anything about my shouting so I assume it was a silent shout. I refuse to think ahead two weeks and how we are going to get out of here again. But everyone is elated and our trek has got off to a good start.

I decide not to dwell on the thought that while the upward slope of the runway is what is needed to stop the aircraft in a few hundred meters it is also what is required to launch the aircraft into the air on take-off.

The question is : what happens of the pilot needs to come around for a second landing attempt? Or, if he wants to abort a take-off? There are some interesting video clips on You Tube that illustrate such events.

Two weeks later, after completing a tour of Everest Base Camp (5365m), Kalapattar peak (5555m), Cho La Pass (5300m) and Gokyo Ri (5483m) we are back for the return flight.

Anyway, once more we are up early and wait at the terminal for the clouds to clear.

Hours later the aircraft come in from Kathmandu and land in short succession. I shudder to think what would happen if there was a snag with the leading craft.

Six aircraft squeeze into an apron built for four, bristling with impatience likes wasps on a threatened nest.

We pile aboard trusting the pilot has taken his daily dose of hash, how otherwise can he keep a steady hand on the stick?

The pilot revs the engine as we taxi onto the strip. He pushes it into the red as he does a smart 90 degree turn toward the downward slope and without a moments hesitation lets go the brakes. We hurtle forward and downward, faster and faster and all I can think is “fagga moto, fagga moto”

Then we drop off the lip. The aircraft sinks like a hang glider before it gathers enough momentum to bite into the thin air and we’re off skirting the valleys back to Katmandu.