BROKEN ENGLISH - One Day as a Tiger - page 167

er side, it is at times like these that the executive committee stalwarts can be found
scrutinising the national officer's employment contract. Thus quietly did that officer
tiptoe to his all too exposed sanctum to confront once again his three-tiered green
wire tray. This object of despair had assumed the characteristics of a fast breeder re-
actor and despite a liberal dumping policy in the waste-paper basket, or on the floor,
its appetite was insatiable.
This particular day atop the pile of correspondence a natty little postcard caught
my eye. I had seen such a card once before, a few years ago now, on the bedsit wall of
a lass who had once been an apple in an old friend's eye, and even then had been at-
tracted to the big unclimbed face that grinned at you straight out of the 4x6, a face
now obscured by a mass of lines, spot heights, arrows and exclamations that may
have had meaning for the author. The reverse side held a clue.
Dear Alex, Great chance for great days on the face you see on the card. See you in
Kathmandu, 10 March. Love Voytek. PS Bring a partner.
Voytek is a sometime electrical engineer and brilliant climber whose prompt action
on top of the Walker Spur back in 1975 saved John Bouchard's piano playing for
posterity. I first became aware of his conspiratorial anti-authoritarian grin in a Rus-
sian railway carriage en route for the now topical port of Termez, the Amu Darya and
the wild lands of Afghanistan. We were bound for the Mandaras Valley, but Voytek
enthused me with tales of the north-east wall of Koh-i-Bandaka, a 'problem for the
year 2000'.
At first our leader refused to share our vision but after two weeks of relentless nag-
ging we went our separate way with their blessing and our own absent-minded co-
leader to cement our friendship on that wall. Thus is explained the Polish element.
It was Christmas so I took mother, sister and card to Chamonix. The boys were
there. Dire plans evolved down in Dutchy's basement. A campaign was instituted.
We would wage war against the Grandes Jorasses north wall. 'We' consisted of my-
self, Uncle Choe and Black Nick. Then local lad René appeared at the door and was
promptly enlisted. An invaluable asset, he could ski, read French weather forecasts,
and use a compass . [2]
It was an interesting jaunt. Nick dropped a ski boot down the north face of the
Midi and had to take the next téléférique back to bed; the less fortunate three took
two days to 'ski' to the foot of the cliff. We reached a climax some five pitches later,
three men, two hammocks and a miserable night in a shallow snow funnel. The
weather, as promised, broke. In an epic retreat René played a blinder while we
blindly wallowed in his wake. He took us back to Cham in masterful style. Down in
the bar I put my card on the table, photo side up, picture still obscured by a mass of
lines, dots, question marks and spot heights that still only made sense to their au-
thor. We pondered the thickest black lines. I resolved to ask René along. He accepted
on the strength of a hot wine, the postcard and an assurance that it was bound to be
a giggle. Perhaps inside every Franco-Italian there is an Englishman trying to get
out?