Three Cups of Deceit: How Greg Mortenson, Humanitarian Hero, Lost His Way (3 page)

In
Three Cups of Tea
, Mortenson never indicates exactly how many days he spent in Korphe on that initial visit in 1993, but he implies it was a lengthy stay:

From his base in Haji Ali
’
s home, Mortenson settled into a routine. Each morning and afternoon he would walk briefly about Korphe, accompanied, as always, by children tugging at his hands
…
. Off the Baltoro, out of danger, he realized just how precious his own survival had been, and how weakened he
’
d become. He could barely make it down the switchback path that led to the river
…
. Wheezing his way back up to the village, he felt as infirm as the elderly men who sat for hours at a time under Korphe
’
s apricot trees, smoking from hookahs and eating apricot kernels. After an hour or two of poking about each day he
’
d succumb to exhaustion and return to stare at the sky from his nest of pillows by Haji Ali
’
s hearth.

 
During his protracted recuperation in Korphe, Mortenson became aware of the Baltis
’
poverty, and
“
how close they lived to hunger.
”
He noticed the widespread malnutrition and disease, and learned that one out of every three Korphe children perished before their first birthday.
“
Mortenson couldn
’
t imagine discharging the debt he felt to his hosts in Korphe. But he was determined to try.
”
He gave away most of his possessions, including his camping stove and warm expedition clothing.

Each day, as he grew stronger, he spent long hours climbing the steep paths between Korphe
’
s homes, doing what little he could to beat back the avalanche of need
…
. He set broken bones and did what little he could with painkillers and antibiotics. Word of his work spread and the sick on the outskirts of Korphe began sending relatives to fetch
“
Dr. Greg,
”
as he would thereafter be known in northern Pakistan
…
.

Often during his time in Korphe, Mortenson felt the presence of his little sister Christa, especially when he was with Korphe
’
s children
…
. They reminded [him] of the way Christa had to fight for the simplest things. Also the way she had of just persevering, no matter what life threw at her. He decided he wanted to do something for them
…
. Lying by the hearth before bed, Mortenson told Haji Ali he wanted to visit Korphe
’
s school.

The following morning,
“
after their familiar breakfast of
chapattis
and
cha
,
”

Haji Ali led Mortenson up a steep path to a vast open ledge
…
. He was appalled to see eighty-two children, seventy-eight boys and the four girls who had the pluck to join them, kneeling in the frosty ground, in the open. Haji Ali, avoiding Mortenson
’
s eyes, said that the village had no school, and the Pakistani government didn
’
t provide a teacher
…
. Mortenson watched, his heart in his throat, as the students stood at rigid attention and began their
‘
school day
’
with Pakistan
’
s national anthem
…
. After the last note of the anthem had faded, the children sat in a neat circle and began copying their multiplication tables. Most scratched in the dirt with a stick they
’
d brought for that purpose.

“
I felt like my heart was being torn out,
”
Mortenson declares in this passage.
“
There was
a fierceness
in their desire to learn, despite how mightily everything was stacked against them, that reminded me of Christa. I knew I had to do something.
”
As Mortenson stood beside Haji Ali that crisp autumn morning, gazing up at the towering peaks of the Karakoram,

climbing
K2 to place a necklace on its summit suddenly felt beside the point. There was a much more meaningful gesture he could make in honor of his sister
’
s memory. He put his hands on Haji Ali
’
s shoulders, as the old man had done to him dozens of times since they
’
d shared their first cup of tea.
“
I
’
m going to build you a school,
”
he said, not yet realizing that with those words, the path of his life had just detoured down another trail, a route far more serpentine and arduous than the wrong turns he
’
d taken since retreating from K2.
“
I
will
build a school,
”
Mortenson said.
“
I promise.
”

This, in Mortenson
’
s dramatic telling, is how he came to dedicate his life to building schools in Pakistan and Afghanistan. He devotes nearly a third of the book to this transformative experience, which he says occurred in September 1993. It
’
s a compelling creation myth, one that he has repeated in thousands of public appearances and media interviews. The problem is
,
it
’
s precisely that: a myth.

Mortenson didn
’
t really stumble into Korphe after taking a wrong turn on his way down from K2. He wasn
’
t lovingly nursed back to health in the home of Haji Ali. He set no villagers
’
broken bones. On that crisp September morning, shortly before returning to America, Mortenson did not put his hands on Haji Ali
’
s shoulders and promise to build a school. In fact, Mortenson would not even make the acquaintance of Haji Ali, or anyone else in Korphe, until more than a year later, in October 1994, under entirely different circumstances.

The first eight chapters of
Three Cups of Tea
are an intricately wrought work of fiction presented as fact. And by no means was this an isolated act of deceit. It turns out that Mortenson
’
s books and public statements are permeated with falsehoods. The image of Mortenson that has been created for public consumption is an artifact born of fantasy, audacity, and an apparently insatiable hunger for esteem. Mortenson has lied about the noble deeds he has done, the risks he has taken, the people he has met, the number of schools he has built.
Three Cups of Tea
has much in common with
A Million Little Pieces
, the infamous autobiography by James Frey that was exposed as a sham. But Frey, unlike Mortenson, didn
’
t use his phony memoir to solicit tens of millions of dollars in donations from unsuspecting readers, myself among them. Moreover, Mortenson
’
s charity, the Central Asia Institute, has issued fraudulent financial statements, and he has misused millions of dollars donated by schoolchildren and other trusting devotees.
“
Greg,
”
says a former treasurer of the organization
’
s board of
directors,
“
regards CAI as his personal ATM.
”

*
*
*

Upon their arrival in Skardu, Mouzafer and Yakub quickly departed for their village in the Hushe Valley, a twelve-hour drive to the east, while Mortenson and Darsney stayed in Skardu. They booked a room at the K2 Motel, a comfortable lodge renowned among Western climbers and trekkers for its hospitality and excellent food. After relaxing there for the better part of a week to recuperate from their debilitating expedition, according to Darsney, he and Mortenson hired a jeep to take them to the village of Khane in the Hushe Valley, the home of their expedition cook, Akhmalu, who had become a friend during the months they
’
d spent together on K2. The two Americans stayed in Khane for several days as Akhmalu
’
s guest, and Mortenson developed great affection for the residents of the village. When Mortenson learned they had no school, he promised Akhmalu he would return to Khane the following year and build one. Then Mortenson and Darsney departed for Islamabad (via a leisurely sightseeing detour that included Peshawar and the Khyber Pass) to catch a flight home.

Back in the States, Mortenson lived in the San Francisco Bay Area and supported himself as a nurse. In his spare time, he tried to raise money for what he
’
d christened the Khane School Project. Erica Stone, the director of the American Himalayan Foundation (AHF), remembers
“
when Greg appeared at my AHF door one day after his K2 expedition and wanted kind of vaguely to do something good.
”
Stone mentored him, encouraged him, and steered him toward potential donors.
“
I jokingly called him my science experiment,
”
she says,
“
because he was around so much.
”