Mountain Tales
When
Ang Tharkay made the choice to become a mountaineer, he did not know
his decision would have a lasting impact on his family, and Tintin fans
worldwide.
May 29, 2016 · 12:30 pm Updated May 29, 2016 · 06:24 pm
Saprina Panday
On
a cold Sunday in February, I find myself waiting in front of a dry
fountain while a road-cleaning machine with big round front brushes
sweeps the remains of a morning market. I’m in the 5th arrondissement in
Paris and it is five past three on a gray-skied afternoon. Pigeons
scatter about, trying to get bits and pieces of leftover food. The smell
of fish lingers and dust rises up through the plane trees; their furry
seeds hang like Christmas balls. A few people are loading a van with the
remains of their wares. I am pacing up and down, with a sinking feeling
in my stomach.
I haven’t seen my parents in over a
year. I’ve been feeling increasingly homesick, and I am about to meet a
man and his family who may very well evoke so many feelings of nostalgia
in me that I feel certain I will cry and embarrass myself. And that is
pretty much what happens when they pull up. A baby, her mother, her
father, and her grandfather. The father smiles at me, “I thought it
would be good for you to have three generations for your story.” My eyes
are wet. I thank God that I have tinted glasses, but my voice as I
stammer, “Hello, nice to meet you. Namaste,” betrays me. I follow them
into a coffee shop across the street. The baby is wrapped in a long
sleeping bag. Her name is Maiya. A name that can travel anywhere. And at
that moment, it travelled to my heart, where I saw my mother being
called by her brothers, by my grandfather; where I saw myself being
called to come have dinner in a small kitchen with cold floors in a
yellow house in Tripureshwor; where the world I was in, in a small
coffee shop in an unknown street, was not so far away from where my
parents, where my family, was.
Nepal.
And
yet here I was, with a family that had its own story. A story that
began for me when I met the young father in the group, Renaud Sherpa.
I
noticed Renaud at a Nepali gathering of solidarity in remembrance of
the victims of the earthquake that hit Nepal in April 2015. Facing the
Eiffel Tower, he stood out with his fair skin and dark hair, weaving in
and out of the crowd with quick and nimble steps, distributing cut-out
sheets of paper. He had a hunger in his eyes when he spoke about Nepal.
He was mixed: half French, half Nepali. It was later that my husband
told me that Renaud carried a unique legacy: he was the grandson of a
Nepali man who made a Frenchman into a national hero. That man is Ang
Tharkay Sherpa, and sitting next to me on a booth in a bustling coffee
shop, in a green fleece jacket, taking off his black beret, is his son,
Dawa Sherpa.
We order our coffees and teas as other
families spill in, moving chairs and tables to accommodate their baby
carriages. In melodious French, Dawa spills out an avalanche of
anecdotes, which I race to write down.
In 1950, Dawa’s
father, Ang Tharkay, made the first-ever ascent of an 8,000-metre peak.
It was on Nepal’s Annapurna I. He was the
sirdar (lead guide) for
a French expedition headed by Maurice Herzog and Louis Lachenal. But
the approaches of the Nepali man and the French man could not have been
more different. Neither could the outcomes.
A hunger for conquest: France’s Maurice Herzog
To
understand Ang Tharkay’s place in history, it is first necessary to
understand the significance of Maurice Herzog in the mountaineering
world.
It is easy to see how Herzog, an uncommonly
handsome man, conquered the imagination of post-war France with the
headline, “Victory over the Himalayas.” It was this picture in
Paris Match,
a struggling, sensationalist magazine, that would save it, reportedly
breaking all its previous sales records. It was this picture that sold a
dream of France’s place in the world.
Maurice Herzog on the cover of Paris Match in August 1950.
Upon Herzog’s return to France, his written work,
Annapurna: The First Conquest of an 8,000-Meter Peak,
would become the best-selling mountaineering book of all time. He would
later become France’s Minister of Youth and Sport under President
Charles de Gaulle.
But these would all come at a high cost. If
the few seconds on the summit were glorious, what followed was traumatic. This video
shows but a glimpse of the horror of the world’s then-highest climber, his
dizzying reduction to a helpless load on a porter’s back. Herzog had to amputate most of his frozen fingers and toes. And then,
once he was back in France, allegations that he was a megalomaniac started to
trickle out. Recent publications allege that he shrewdly planned that only he would have the right to tell
the story of the ascent. Herzog’s climbing partner, Louis Lachenal, who took
the picture that made Herzog a legend, received no credit and was largely
ignored by the media. It is only in the space of the last two years that
stories of others from the expedition, none of whom are still alive, are being
brought to light.
In 2012, at the age of 93, Maurice Herzog died. Years
earlier his daughter had written an autobiographical novel about her
childhood. Before he died, Herzog had had time to read the book in which
his daughter exposed him as a compulsive liar and a child molester. His
reaction was to deny that his daughter had written the book. Time did
not let him disappear fast enough to leave an untarnished legacy.
Despite
his troubled relationships with others, he maintained a bond of
friendship with Ang Tharkay and Tharkay’s family. It was Herzog who
would use his influence to get Dawa papers to stay in France. When
multiple attempts failed, he would convince Dawa to marry his French
girlfriend, who would become the mother to Renaud. And it was he who
would ultimately shape the generation that came after to feel both
French and yet still hunger for Nepal: Renaud, his wife, Amelie, and now
their child, Maiya.
The reluctant mountain-conqueror
Known
within today’s mountaineering community for having climbed with notable
Western climbers like Eric Shipton in the 1930s, Ang Tharkay never
dreamed of scaling mountains. He began work as a high-altitude porter
because he came from a very poor village high in the mountains. Unlike
Herzog, it was not the ambition to conquer but ambition to survive that
guided him to this fate.
In the area where Ang Tharkay
grew up, as in much of Nepal, family friendships formed through informal
agreements created ties akin to family ties between people. Two people
who were bonded in such a tie would be known to each other as mit, and
their relationship had influence over all of the community, particularly
on younger members. So when Ang Tharkay’s grandfather’s mit would one
day tell Ang Tharkay to leave the village, he could not refuse.
Thus
Ang Tharkay began his life in Darjeeling, the heart of mountaineering.
There, people interested in exploring the Himalayas had to go through
the Himalayan Club, which acted as a professional gatekeeper for
high-altitude guides and porters. The club awarded what were known as
“Tiger” badges for outstanding achievements. Badges were awarded for
such feats as carrying 70 kilograms above 7,000 meters. While other
mountaineers, like Tenzing Norgay, received these badges, Ang Tharkay,
who had been Norgay’s mentor, was not interested in such awards.
“There was never a time when he told any of us [his five children] to try to conquer mountains,” said Dawa.
“C’est con! Un sherpa ne pense jamais comme ça!
That’s idiotic. A Sherpa simply does not think like that. Mountains are
goddesses. We always wondered why foreigners came all the way to climb
them.”
In 1954, Indian Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru
founded the Himalayan Mountaineering Institute in Darjeeling. Nehru saw a
huge potential for growth in mountaineering after the ascent of Mount
Everest by Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay in 1953. In HMI’s first
year, Ang Tharkay became its chief instructor and developed a close bond
with its principal, Major Nandu Jayal. Together they went to
Switzerland for professional training in all aspects of mountaineering.
But despite this new position, Ang Tharkay did not have enough money to
send his eldest son to boarding school. After multiple failed attempts
to find help with the funding, which involved sending a letter to Prime
Minister Nehru and having it read by Prime Minister Indira Gandhi, only
to result in disagreements within HMI – some between Ang Tharkay and
Tenzing Norgay – Ang Tharkay left the association. From Kathmandu, he
continued his own expeditions. A combination of misfortune and a
predisposition toward trusting meant that he was often found indebted,
having been conned out of his savings.
For Dawa,
although born in the hills of Darjeeling, mountaineering was not an
option. He had epileptic fits as a child. His mother, a Sherpini from
Namche Bazaar, dragged him to countless monasteries and meetings with
different Rinpoches in the area, desperate to find a way to heal him.
His health meant choosing a different path.
Yet Dawa
seems to be following in his father’s footsteps in a different way. For
the past 37 years, he has been working at a great outdoors retailer
called Au Vieux Campeur, where he sells backpacks to trekkers. When
people ask him why, he said, “Before, Sherpas used to carry other
people’s heavy loads. Now, I’m telling people to carry their own loads.”
While he says this in jest, he is aware that Ang Tharkay’s fame as a sirdar (glimpses of which are
captured in this video), did not bear the fruit of its labour like it
did for others.
The community-builder
Unlike
his father who had never been able to go to school, Dawa finished his
university in Kathmandu, but he knew that he would not be staying in
Nepal for long.
“When we came from Darjeeling to
Kathmandu, we found Kathmanduites unsophisticated. They only watched
Hindi movies with the likes of Dev Anand. They had no curiosity about
the rest of the world. I wanted to travel.”
He got the
chance to go to Japan where one of his brothers had a travel agency that
sent mountaineers to Nepal. Working as a manager, he stayed there for
three years until he felt pulled to go to the Amazon.
“I was fascinated by the people that looked like Nepalis, but that were not. I just wanted to go and see them for myself.”
On his way, he stopped in France, and, in the streets of Paris, fell for a French woman who worked for Air France.
“I forgot about the Amazon then! And I’ve been here since!”
He
is now a French citizen. But when I ask him if he feels French, he
said, “Our minds are different. We do not think the same way. We do not
give importance to the same things.”
When I ask him to
elaborate, he talks about community. His first example is his mother,
whom he speaks about with unabashed pride.
“My mother
was an activist. In 1954-'55, she’d heard that a Sherpini had been
brought by some Chinese smugglers and was being kept in a brothel in
Calcutta. Taking off her Sherpa clothes, she dressed up in foreign
clothes, and took the police all the way from Darjeeling to rescue the
girl.”
He seems nostalgic. He describes how things have
changed in France within the Nepali community. In the 1980s, there used
to be associations that were Nepali. Now he is worried about the ones
that have sprouted based on ethnic lines, like those of the Gurungs, or
the Magars, where people only seem to look out for their “kind.”
“I tell them, ‘We are a small country. We should not separate ourselves like this.’ There’s just too much politics.
C’est nul. That’s lame.”
Staying
together despite the odds, that seems to be one of the lessons he took
from his parents. That is when Renaud tells me about tax forms he has
been filing for his father for the past six years.
“In
the tax form I was reviewing, I noticed he’d checked the box ‘married’
instead of ‘divorced.’ I told him, ‘Dad, you’ve been divorced for 15
years.’ That’s when he told me, ‘Oh no! But I am married in Nepal.’”
After
separating from his wife, and without telling his son, Dawa adopted
three of his nephews and married one of his late brother’s wives.
Dawa nods.
“I didn’t want them to feel like they do not have a father.”
And
then there are other things that are different between “here” and
“there.” Dawa says he does not like to complicate his life with
unnecessary questions about things. His first few weeks in Paris, he
would walk only in straight lines so that he didn’t get lost. At that
time he was shy because he did not know how to pronounce the names of
the streets.
“Then one day I got stuck at a roundabout
and all the streets looked the same. I could not remember which one to
take. So I went into a Chinese restaurant. I first ate to be polite. And
then, once I was done, then only, I asked: ‘Rue . . . Monge?’
They said it was far.
I said, ‘I don’t care. Just tell me which direction I should be heading.’”
The
direction he was heading was not common – living abroad, marrying a
foreigner, learning new languages. But it was never an issue. As far as
being with a foreigner, his brother had already laid the groundwork. “He
had a charm, despite his small height . . . He had girlfriends from
around the world.”
Tintin’s secret
Maiya
is now up. She is calm and observant, an adorable mix of both her
parents. Her mother, Amelie, with her fair skin, dark hair, and deep
eyes could be a Sherpini. “Some people think we are brother and sister!”
she exclaimed, sharing a knowing glance with Renaud. Yet Amelie is a
very rare breed: an actual born-and-raised Parisian.
Renaud too lived in France all his life. He feels French, but with an obvious pull toward Nepal.
Maybe
because he didn’t speak the language growing up, or maybe because he
was far away, or maybe because people are secretive, there are many
stories that he was never told and had to discover for himself.
Like this one.
“When
my parents were together, more than fifteen years ago, we used to
travel to Nepal every year. At that time, because my mother worked with
Air France, we had free tickets, and so we went regularly. We stayed in
our house in Lazimpat. It was around 2002-'03. I remember I was hanging
out in the living room, and I found a copy of Tintin in Tibet. I was
looking at the pictures and my eyes got drawn to the portrait of my
grandfather that was hanging above me. The drawing and the picture
looked so similar. And the character’s name was Tharkey. That’s when I
knew: Tharkey was my grandfather.”
Dawa chips in:
“He had the same look. He wore the same hat.”
Ang Tharkay
Hergé,
the pen name of the Belgian creator of the series, did not have any
pictures of Sherpas. It was only after Maurice Herzog’s ascent of
Annapurna was celebrated, and after Ang Tharkay was received in France
in 1953 for his role in the French expedition, that Tharkey, the loyal
Sherpa who helps Tintin as he searches for his Chinese friend, came to
life. Tintin in Tibet went on to become one of the biggest successes of
the comic writer, with many calling it his most profound story of
friendship and love.
For many, including my French
husband who grew up with Tintin, Tharkey has been an unforgettable
character who shaped his vision of Nepal and Nepalis.
And
now, Ang Tharkay is to be more than the flesh and blood of a comic
character. In his newly released memoir, translated into English from
the French, the rest of the world can finally have access to the words
of this humble giant.
Sherpa: The Memoir of Ang Tharkay
Sabrina Panday's Twitter handle is @saprinapanday and her email address is saprinapanday@gmail.com.
This article first appeared on Record Nepal.
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