Hell Is Above Us: The Epic Race to the Top of Fumu, the World's Tallest Mountain by Jonathan Bloom (bookreader TXT) 📗

only be called ‘play.’ Some were playing checkers. Others were drawing large, awkward pictures. Another man was playing mumblety peg with a very sharp blade. The scene put me ill-at-ease. I had no explanation for such behaviour in fully-grown men. What also struck me was their skin. These were not Nepalese men, or at least not many of them. Some looked European. Others were coloured. Another oriental. They seemed to represent all corners of the globe.”

According to Oldhusband, a large door in the back of the room swung open. A tall, skinny man of unknown descent (“Tan skin. South American? Brazilian?” Oldhusband wondered in his journal) stood at the threshold. Running down past his shoulders were oily, matted strips of graying black hair, thinning on the top. He called out the names of the two men who had first greeted Oldhusband and Junk. Their names were apparently Wee One and Tiny. “A tattletale has informed me you have both been sneaking alcohol from the villagers! Is this so?”

Neither man answered.

“Well?!”

Silence. Looks of terror on Wee One and Tiny.

“Fine. You do not need to answer. But be advised there will be no sleeping over at the other monasteries until the harvest!”

Wee One and Tiny began to cry.

“I was baffled. Wordless,” wrote Junk in a letter to McGee. “What the hell was going on here? This made conversations during my stay at the mental hospital seem like arguments before the Supreme Court.”

After disciplining Wee One and Tiny, the tall skinny man turned around to leave. Junk stopped him and asked him if he could have a moment of his time. The tall skinny man acquiesced and grudgingly invited Junk and Oldhusband to follow him.

They entered a bright room. Across from them was an enormous opening in the wall, roughly twelve feet by twelve feet. The opening overlooked Fumu and her smaller neighbors. The room did not feel particularly cold despite the giant aperture. The warmth was due to a roaring fire burning in a pit just before the opening.

“Gumdrop?” The man held out two gumdrops he had fished out of a bowl on the floor.

Junk replied. “No. Thank you. My name is Aaron Junk, and my colleague here is Mr. Bruce Oldhusband. We are from the United States and England, respectively. Can we record our conversation with you?”

“Be my guest. Would you like to hear my imitation of a duck?”

“No thank you.”

“I can sing ‘Anything Goes.’”

“That’s quite alright.”

“This is going to be a very boring recording. I have an idea. I can pretend to be The Queen and you can pretend to be the guards outside of Buckingham Palace. I do crazy things like lift up my skirt, and you try not to laugh.”

“Wait.”

“Tiny! Come in here please!”

“No no. Sir, this is not supposed to be a humourous recording.”

Tiny entered the room. The skinny man immediately put Tiny in a headlock and messed up his hair. He then released Tiny from the headlock, slapped him, and kissed him full on the mouth.

“Now get out of here.”

Oldhusband laughed but quickly stifled it. Junk shot him a scathing look.

The skinny man watched Tiny leave the room and then turned to view his guests. “That was more of a visual joke, I guess. But you see my point. Absurdity tarted up with violence can be quite amusing.”

Junk spoke. “Sir, not to be rude, but we wish to record you for posterity. We have come from far away, and we find you and your colleagues fascinating. I am confident others will be amazed by your existence as well. You see? We wish to document you.”

“If you do not record my antics, then you are not documenting me.”

“Fair enough. Then let me rephrase my intent. I wish to interview you.”

The skinny man sighed and then sat on the floor. “Go ahead.”

Junk sat down as well. He pulled a pad and pencil out of his jacket pocket, wiped dirt and sand off of the pad, and prepared to write. Oldhusband took the phonograph off of his back and placed it on the floor, equidistant from Junk and the skinny man but slightly off to the side. He affixed the horn to the top, attached a cylinder, and wound the phonograph’s crank. The cylinder began to turn. Oldhusband gave Junk the thumb’s up sign and then sat down himself. The following is the transcript of the conversation, with Oldhusband’s notes in brackets:

JUNK: “What is your name.”

SKINNY MAN: “I do not have a formal name, but around here, they call me Mano, which is Portuguese for ‘big brother’.”

JUNK: “Why ‘big brother?’”

MANO: “Because I tell them what to do to be pious.”

JUNK: “Piety. What religion’s dogma are you following?”

MANO: “It has no name. We worship the Angry Parent, the Fire and Ice. We worship Fumu.”

JUNK: “Why is she angry?”

MANO: “He is angry because his children do not live up to his expectations.”

JUNK: “Wait. Is Fumu a he or a she?”

MANO: [Raises his shoulders and lower lip, as if to express befuddlement] “May I ask you a few questions?”

JUNK: “Of course.” [Junk replies in as friendly a tone as possible even though I know he has no interest in answering questions].

MANO: “Why are you here?”

JUNK: “In Nepal?”

MANO: “Yes.”

JUNK: “We are here to climb Mount Everest.”

MANO: “I see. Do you plan to climb Fumu as well?”

JUNK: “No. Not this time. But perhaps in the future.”

MANO: “Why would you climb her?”

JUNK: [Junk has to think about this one. He does not want to offend Mano. For all we know, the wrong answer could lead to a public garroting. My friend chooses his words carefully.] “Out of awe. Out of worship.”

MANO: [Slowly shakes his head, as if disappointed with the answer.] “Singing praises is worship. A burnt offering is worship. Living humbly is worship. Me wearing a loincloth like a nappy is worship. Climbing atop a god is not ‘worship.’ It is anger. It is domination. It is nonconsensual.