Annapurna

Maurice Herzog

Some fifty patients awaited the Doctor Sahib. They had all kinds of diseases, mostly inflammation or unaccountable fevers. It would have taken a long time to see all the patients and required a lot of medical supplies, not to speak of endless patience on Oudot’s part. He drew up a standard questionnaire:
1) How old are you?
2) Do you sleep well at night?
3) Have you a good appetite?
4) Where is the pain?
5) Do you cough?
This questionnaire was given to Noyelle who translated it into English for G.B.’s benefit, with the help of a few words of Hindustani, and G.B. translated it into Gurkhali. The replies had to follow the reverse order, but after all these intermediaries they were often pretty queer. The Sherpas were doubled up with laughter. They could only understand part of the conversation—the last bit that began in Hindustani, went on into Gurkhali and then came back in Hindustani. By this stage it had suffered a farcical change!
Oudot had tremendous prestige. People came long distances to see him, for he had become a sort of god. We admired the touching simplicity of these creatures who put their health and sometimes their lives in the hands of a complete stranger. It was the first time they had been examined by a real doctor. When they were ill they consulted the village witch doctor, or so-called “healer.” The great panacea was always the same—an ointment of cow-dung.
The patients were not always very tractable; they were bound by the dictates of their religion, and they didn’t like it when Oudot touched them. The hardest job was to examine the women, who were excessively modest and would not allow themselves to be touched on any account, still less undressed. On one occasion Oudot succeeded in getting all the finery off a Nepalese girl. When she was half undressed Sarki, who had been helping, discreetly left the tent. Nothing would then persuade the girl to proceed any further.
Medicine had to be dealt out to all of them. Whenever he could, Oudot gave them something relevant to their ailment; otherwise he distributed inoffensive pills which had mainly a psychological effect. But there was no knowing what they might do with the things. They would unhesitatingly swallow anti-sunburn ointment or the most solid of plasters, and cheerfully swap medicines, given for particular illnesses. But they showed great courage in any surgical treatment.
One day an unfortunate youth came along with a double compound fracture of the wrist. The radius stuck out from a mass of pus, the arm was enormous, and the hand swollen out of all recognition. He was certainly in a bad way. Oudot-always by the same complicated process of interpretation—discovered that the accident had happened a fortnight ago. He told the parents that amputation of the arm was the only way of saving their son. They refused, and made it plain that all they wanted was dressing. Well, it couldn’t be helped. Oudot gave the patient morphia and then tried to get things back in place: he succeeded after a fashion and finally put the arm in plaster.

This story, a couple paragraphs at the backend of a weighty expedition report, pretty much covers everything that happened on that expedition and maybe everything that happens to climbers all over the world.

“What will happen?” I asked Oudot anxiously. There would be no one to change the dressing, and in a few days the wound would begin to suppurate again.
“There’s nothing else to be done. He’ll probably be dead in a fortnight.”