Where the Mountain Used to Be

It takes two hours to get to Everest the next morning, over the high mountain pass and through two military checkpoints. But when we get to Base Camp the crisp blue sky has disappeared and thick cloud hangs on the horizon. It blocks everything from sight, except for a flock of crows and Rombuk Monastery, the highest monastery in the world.

"That's the space where the mountain used to be," Wangden shouts over the wind at me, pointing at the cloud as we jump out of the jeep.

"I'm so sorry," says Sonon. "But you know they say Everest just looks like a fat old man in a group of beautiful women? There are better mountains."

We mess around in the fog for a while, Wangden and Sonan and Yeshi and me, taking pictures of each other by the plinth — Mount Qomolangma Base Camp, Altitude 5300 Metres — but the wind cuts through the blankets tied around our waists and stings our faces. There's nobody here but us and the cold: the tents have been packed up for the winter and everybody's gone home.

"Look," says Wangden, pointing towards the building. A woman in long red robes waves at us through the fog. She calls out to us in Tibetan and beckons us to come in, and we follow her up to the monastery. The courtyard is brightly painted; quiet and still and sheltered from the wind, and we take a minute to rub the blood back into our fingers.

"She says the weather has been like this for days," Wangden translates for me. "And they haven't seen the mountain in nearly a week. Do you want to go inside and drink tea?"

Yes, I want to drink tea. The guys go to the temple to bless themselves, and I let the nun lead me down a narrow stone corridor and through a small door, which is more like a hole in the wall. The room is low-ceilinged and dark, except for thin shafts of light beaming in through a low window. At first I think there's strange music playing, but as my eyes adjust I realise it's a group of nuns and a monk sitting around the stove, chanting. The music I'm hearing is their voices and the sound of the wind outside harmonising. One nun locks eyes with me and smiles, and makes the international sign for: Please, warm your hands by the fire, child.

I sit on a bench and drink the butter tea that's handed to me. I can feel the altitude in my head and in my stomach, but I'm so exhilarated to be here and this room is so peaceful that I just ignore it. Outside, the cloud still sits low and thick over the mountains and nothing seems to be changing. The guys come in from the temple and join me, and we all stay there very quietly for a while, absorbed by the chanting.

Eventually, Sonan says we can either stay at the monastery for a couple of days and hope the weather clears, or head back down to Lhasa. Of course I want to stay, but Wangden points out that the Chinese are closing Tibet to foreigners for the entire month of March. I have to get out of here and back to China.

It's okay. I'm just so happy to have been here, and the world really doesn't need another photograph of that mountain.