Showering at Basecamp

Today I washed.

That alone is worthy of an entry of significant proportions. The wind has finally died down leaving us to bask in the sunshine and burn excess calories shivering whilst overenthustically walking around in our shorts. It feels like a Canadian spring - as soon as the sun comes out, the shorts are donned even though the temperatures barely scratch +5 degrees and you’re still chipping frost off of the windshield of the car. With everyone back at Basecamp and having celebrated the safe return of the Lakpari group, spirits were high and domesticity was high on the “To Do” list. This includes laundry and personal hygiene… And one knows it is down to desperate measures when in a camp of over 24-men, all agree and take action.

I’m convinced that the challenge of showering at Basecamp is a testosterone driven challenge which appeals predominately to the male species. From the vantage point inside my tent I have a perfect view of the bright blue shower tent about 15 meters away, standing adjacent to a small knoll or hill of about 5 metres. Atop the hill is a bright red 2 metre tall ladder from which 5-long streams of prayer flags radiate under the bright blue sky. The ladder has a small ‘platform’ which holds a 5-L blue barrel. When the shower is ‘in use’ two Sherpas are recruited to climb the ladder, dump a bucket of hot water into the barrel.

The water is then propelled down a thin hose which leads to a small silver shower-head inside of the tent… ultimately ending up on the head of the waiting shower patron who stands ready with soap and shampoo and towel in case of emergency. There is a lever on the shower head which allows some regulation of the water flow so effectively one can have a good rinse, stop the water flow, lather up, restart the flow and rinse off… The entire process takes about 5 - 8 minutes when done efficiently and when the process runs seamlessly - which, from my vantage point and the regular unusually high pitched yelps coming from deep within the recesses of the bright blue tent, is about 20 percent of the time.

Problems seem to arise under the following conditions:

(1) there are no Sherpas available to carry the hot water up the ladder ( a feat requiring super human strength)

(2) the hose from the bucket to the showerhead plugs leaving the patron in a shivering, naked, half lathered state.

(3) the wind picks up exposing significant drafts in the shower tent increasing the risk of frostbite to vital organs

(4) the wind picks up exposing the shivering, pasty white flasher to the rest of the camp.

(5) the zipper to the shower tent freezes turning a lukewarm shower into what can only be equated to a locked meat freezer.

In each case, the patron, is left stranded half naked, half soapy in front of the shower, wrapped only in a trekking towel about the size of an oversize handkerchief shouting helplessly trying to attract the attention of anyone able to assist. I’ve observed that cold wind is like kryptonite to a half naked man and said kryptonite will not only cause him to go weak at the knees and blue in the face (among other places) but it will also cause him to raise his voice by several octaves begging desperately for hot water, a bathrobe or some sort of moral support (a wave and a snicker from my tent is generally not well received). The scenario generally ends with a Sherpa escorting the victim to his tent with an industrial sized ’potato’ bucket of hot water and some baby wipes with instructions to ‘finish the job’ in the privacy of ones own tent - a solution which, in my ‘logical female mind‘, would have been much more simple to start out with..!

Without trying to appear a complete voyeur, I watch amused as, time and time again, this testosterone driven scenario plays itself out in front of my eyes. Certainly, the alternative would be a much more appealing option but perhaps that element of ’preening’ and ‘faffing’ is a female tendency.

For example, today I smiled sweetly at one of the Sherpas and managed to get a giant silver spaghetti pot from he kitchen, along with a stainless steel mug, a jug of boiling hot water and a thermos of cold water. In the privacy of my tent, in my own time, and basking in the 32 degree warmth I zip closed my private spa, reemerging 45 minutes later with freshly washed hair - quite nearly the ‘Herbal Essences” experience - a clean body, brushed teeth, a strict regime of moisturiser and a new wardrobe - all without having exposed myself to the cold or the camp. If this process is done efficiently, water remains for a quick rinse of socks and underwear. AND, to top it off, the tent will smell clean an refreshed and any spilled water can be used to do a quick mop of the tent floor.

Given that there seems to be little else to do other than look at Everest, talk about the summit day, look at Everest, talk about the summit day, look at Everest… the 45-minute preening session is an extremely worthwhile investment of time - not to mention the additional perks including the whistles of approval from the boys when you emerge from the tent fresh, clean, footloose and fancy free.

As I finish this entry I watch as Ian heads into the tent armed with a small trekking towel, shampoo and some soap - yet another potential victim. He’s accompanied by the usual two Sherpas who are armed with a small red trekking bucket full water - the temperature of which is still rather dubious. I chuckle to myself as the entertainment, once again, begins to unfold.