When I was first assigned to shoot on The Widows of Everest documentary in the Everest region for Al Jazeera 101 East I had no idea that this story would change how I saw nearly everything, and almost cost me my life. I had expected to be threatened by the challenges endemic to in the high mountains like avalanches, rockfall or altitude sickness, but I had not anticipated almost losing my life to a severe case of COVID-19.
I know that this story is one that is shared by hundreds of thousands of fellow Nepalis – tens of thousands of whom were not as fortunate as I was.
At 8 am on April 15th, 2021 a DoP and I landed on the steep runway at the infamous Tenzing Hillary Airport in Lukla. Our destination was Everest Base Camp, and along the way we planned to meet with Sherpa families and widows to report on the real human cost of the Everest mountaineering industry.
When we left Kathmandu, things were entirely normal. People were walking freely without masks and there was little social distancing. Hotels and restaurants were filled with customers. My coffee table at home was littered with invitations to lavish wedding parties for friends and distant relatives.
Even though neighboring India was drowning under a second wave of the coronavirus, this didn’t register for us. Perhaps we believed the fantastic rhetoric from our elected officials saying that we would be saved by the fresh mountain air, or an agressive consumption of turmeric. Even as Nepal’s airports grew busy with thousands of Indian migrants transiting Kathmandu in response to many Gulf countries banning workers from India, we didn’t pay any heed.
And it was the climbing season, after all. Hundreds of foreigners were flooding into Nepal to test their luck in the mountains. They didn’t seem worried, so how bad could it be?
My first hint came when my phone rang, moments after we exited the airplane and breathed our first lungfuls of the fresh mountain air. It’s a friend and Sherpa mountain guide calling from Everest Base Camp:
“Please don’t come up here, sister. Many people are sick, and some people have tested positive for the coronavirus. I have been trying to call you since this morning but your phone wasn’t reachable. Please think about it.”
I was confused, but determined to carry on. After all, we had made all this effort to come, and there were hundreds of other tourists on the trail. We had our PCR tests with us, and could maintain social distancing and wear masks. Ignoring his advice, we kept walking. Again, my mind wondered, how bad could it really be?
As we traveled deeper into the Khumbu valley, I was surprised at how few masks were actually beign worn by tourists and local residents.
“This coronavirus is just Western propaganda to make a poor nation like Nepal even poorer,” a Sherpa restaurant owner in Namche told me.
As we continued north, we began to see more signs of the virus everywhere. In Gorak Shep, our hotel was full of climbers with COVID-19 symptoms, isolating and refusing to go down.
When pressed, the hotel owner Pasang Sherpa told me: “The coronavirus is just like the flu. We shouldn’t be worried about it.”
The next day we reached Everest Base Camp where we were asked to take rapid antigen tests before we entered. To our relief, we all of us tested negative. The usual bustle of Base Camp was gone as most expeditions isolated amongst themselves. We spent the next day filming many of the sherpa teams working on the mountain. Our subject matter naturally pivoted away from the usual dangers of the expeditions to the ever-present threat of COVID-19. Despite the fact that many climbers were testing positive for the virus, climbing was still happening.
For the Sherpas, it was a mixed bag. While they were all grateful to be working again after the previous season was cancelled, some were worried about the virus spreading across the camp. Others were more nonchalant. One expedition manager whom we interviewed urged us to leave as soon as possible, citing the growing number of infections.
We took his advice, and descended to Phortse where we stayed for a few days, conducting interviews with local families and widows of Sherpa climbers who had died on the mountain. We continued on to Namche, where I felt the first icy fingers of a fever come over me.
At first I convinced myself it was a common cold or the infamous ‘Khumbu cough’ – which I often get when in the mountains. But I knew, deep down, that it could very likely be COVID. After seeing so many people isolating in the hotel at Gorak Shep, and interviewing climbers who were obviously exhibiting symptoms of the virus, there was truly little doubt.
I knew I was contagious, and was worried about spreading it to the villagers while I isolated. I was also worried about my own health and knew that treatment options were limited in the Khumbu. It may not have been the best choice, but I wanted to get back to Kathmandu. I did what I thought was the least of two evils, and walked all the way back to Lukla the next morning in a daze. I still don’t know how I made it.
On April 26th, I returned to Kathmandu. I got a PCR test and isolated myself. My temperature had risen to 102 degrees Fahrenheit, and I had lost my sense of taste and smell.
The next morning, I started coughing heavily.
I was fortunate to have a direct line to Dr. Sher Bahadur Pun, chief of the clinical research unit at Sukraraj Tropical and Infectious Disease Hospital. He monitored my case and prescribed antibiotics. As my fever grew, I began to drift in and out of consciousness.
Meanwhile, caseloads across the country were spiking, and hospitals were quickly overwhelmed, The Prime Minister began to beg for help from the international community, saying “Nepal is helpless.” In just five days, the number of daily confirmed cases doubled, and doubled again a week later. On April 29th, the government imposed a complete nationwide lockdown.
On Everest, Base Camp was still crowded with around 1,300 climbers and support staff. Dozens of people were evacuated by helicopter to Kathmandu hospitals, where they tested positive. Despite multiple posts by climbers and others on social media, the Department of Tourism inexplicably denied that any virus outbreak was happening at Base Camp. My fever, now topping 103.6 degrees, told a different story, which my friends were encouraging me to tell.
It took me 2 full hours to compose 3 tweets. I told about my trip and about testing positive soon after returning from Base Camp. These were picked up immediately by international media outlets including The Washington Post, NPR, Outside Magazine and The Financial Times. Many journalists wrote to me asking for an interview but I only had the strength to reply to a few WhatsApp questions.
After a week since first testing positive, my fever had not gone down. My oxygen levels were dropping and I was so short of breath that even speaking was impossible. Going to the hospital wasn’t an option as ICU beds and oxygen weren’t available to anyone, no matter who you knew. Other people that I knew were dead because they were unable to get oxygen on time.
The next four days were the hardest of my life. My oxygen level hovered dangerously around 85 percent, and I continued to battle with my fever and a crippling cough. I was unable to open my eyes for more than two minutes at a time.
At one point, I completely lost hope. I was certain that I was going to die. I wanted to call my mom, back home in our village to say goodbye, but I couldn’t manage to pick up the phone. I couldn’t speak. And I also knew that she wouldn’t bear seeing me like this.
After 11 days, I stopped eating. My lungs were bleeding, and I was certain that there was no chance of recovery. It took all my strength to take even a tiny breath, a herculean task that I was forced to repeat every few seconds. That night, I lay awake just waiting for the moment when even this little breath would stop. I thought about my life and my career. I realized that I was happy, even grateful for all that I had experienced and accomplished. My life was shorter than I had planned, but it had been full. I was content, and I was ready to go.
I don’t remember when I fell asleep.
Somehow, by a miracle, I woke up the next morning. I actually felt a little better. After a while, I checked my vital signs and found that my fever had broken and my oxygen saturation had inched upwards by a few percent. I was shocked.
Over the next days as my health slowly improved I realized that I would make it through. But I was less certain about the state of my country. Now, officially 200 people were dying from COVID each day, with over 50% of tests coming back positive. Vaccines were trickling in, but with only 7% of the population getting their first jab, it wasn’t enough to stem the tide.
I heard reports of people dying in ambulances, on sidewalks and at hospital gates for lack of treatment or access to basic resources like oxygen. I felt extremely lucky to have survived, as I knew first-hand the deadly power of this virus.
On May 18th, I got a PCR test and felt strong enough to venture out for the first time. I decided to visit the main Government hospitals in Kathmandu: Bir Hospital, Teaching Hospital, and the Sukraraj Tropical and Infectious Disease Hospital. In all three I found the same depressing story – emergency wards filled to overflowing with patients, sometimes with two or three strangers sharing a bed. Overwhelmed doctors telling loved ones that they didn’t have oxygen supplies, encouraging them to ‘manage it by yourself.’ Patients were being turned away by the dozen.
Dr. Subhah Panta, an Emergency Medical Officer at the Tribhuvan University Teaching Hospital told me “We are helpless, we don’t have beds and we don’t have oxygen. We don’t even have enough manpower. Now people have only two choices—go home, or go to your cremation alone.”
I was exhausted. I could barely stand up. But my heart just could not let go. I was plagued with questions about my own experience and what was happening to my country. How did I survive? How many other people are suffering like I did, or worse? What kind of miracle kept me alive?
Still looking for answers, I went to the Pashupati crematorium. In only 30 minutes, I watched twelve cremations – one body every three minutes. The attendees were working without rest to keep up with the demand. The crematorium grounds were choked with bereaved family members, stricken with the double blow of losing a loved one and being unable to perform the proper last rites.
As I continued to gain strength, I began to write. On May 21st, TIME Magazine printed a long-form piece on my trip from Everest Base Camp back to Kathmandu. This brought my thoughts back to the Khumbu where the virus was spreading unchecked. I learned that Pasang, the hotel owner in Gorak Shep, had also had a near-death experience and was evacuated by helicopter to Kathmandu.
The Department of Tourism had the most successful Everest season in history, at least in terms of revenue. The 408 different expeditions generated nearly $4.2 million this year, and the department continues to deny that there ever was a COVID-19 outbreak at Base Camp in the first place.
In total, COVID claimed the lives of 8 people the Khumbu valley after April and infected many hundreds of others. Over 800,000 people contracted COVID officially, and more than 11,000 died – more than in the devastating earthquake of 2015 in Nepal.
I still don’t know how I survived. On that one terrible night, I came to realize how important life truly is. I feel as if I’ve been reborn, or given some miraculous gift and I’m determined to make the most of the days that I have left. I am eager, too, to get back into the mountains and trek – but first, I’m going to need to get some more rest.
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Editor’s Note: Rojita’s co-directed documentary The Widows of Everest was nominated for a prestigious Rory Peck Award 2021.
