My first morning at Everest Base Camp, I awaken to the soft rumbling of a distant avalanche and the faint, nutty aroma of freshly ground coffee. My brain, groggy from slumber and lack of oxygen, doesn’t know whether to be alarmed or excited. The sound of tumbling ice fades, but the smell of a strong French roast only grows stronger.
A rap at my tent door is followed by a cheerful voice saying subha prabhat, or good morning, in Nepalese. I remain in bed, cocooned in the warmth of my electric blanket as the door unzips to reveal an apple-cheeked man holding a tray with a French press and a mug. “Delivery from your barista guy,” he says with a chuckle. He places the much-needed caffeine on a side table, gives a little bow and exits, zipping me back into my personal mountain sanctuary.
I feel guilty as I take my first sip, recalling how Manhattan socialite-cum-mountaineer Sandy Hill was demonised for her discerning coffee preferences in Into Thin Air, Jon Krakauer’s bestseller that chronicled the 1996 Everest disaster, when a blizzard killed eight summiteers as they attempted their descent. I was among her detractors. Yet here I am having exceptional coffee delivered to my heated geodesic-dome tent with its 4m ceiling, queen-sized bed, Persian rugs, lighting and charging outlets. There’s even a humidifier.
These are not comforts I expected to find at the inhospitable foot of the world’s highest peak. In fact, these are luxuries that, before my trek, I questioned even belonged in such a fragile ecosystem—especially for people who claimed to be austere adventurers. Given the option, would Tenzing Norgay and Sir Edmund Hillary have booked massages at base camp after becoming the first humans to step foot on Everest’s 8,849m crown? I doubt it.
Their celebrated ascent in 1953 spawned an Everest obsession that, despite multiple tragedies, shows no signs of abating. The numbers are not yet official, but it appears that the Nepalese government issued a historic number of permits
