There are cows on the beach. This is India.
I laugh to myself. The waves are crashing in the background, they sound thundering,
no lagoon protects this coast as it did in the Pacific, in the oceans of my memory.
There is nothing subtle, nothing soft spoken about this land. Even the waves are in-your-face.
I was attempting to reason a feeling that I had the other day in Bombay, a feeling I have not felt before, a feeling of being in the middle of complete maddness, and though it was brief, I have been thinking about this feeling since it occured on the local railway in the biggest city in the subcontinent. Gregory Roberts, in his amazing book Shantaram which I am currently reading,
experienced the same rush, the same crush, in the same city, some years before...
"Bellowing threats, insults and curses, he thumped a path through the choking throng. Men fell and were pushed aside with every lift and thrust...people shouted and screamed as if they were the victims of a terrible disaster. Garbled, indicipherable announcements blared from the loudspeakers over our heads. Sirens, bells, and whistles wailed constantly. "
Me, getting onto a train, every man using every ounce of his strength to push, pull, wedge, and fight his way into the already overcrowded car. The intensity of the looks, shouts, made the car charged with energy. I, too, pushed, pulled, and fought, a second notice to my being a foreigner not being taken. When the doors closed, a calm politeness took over the railcar like a sedative. Heads nodded side to side, and courteous men ensured that I was aware of my stop. Then, the doors open, and pandemonium breaks out once again, like clockwork. The terror and politeness, crazed emotion and then civility and serenity, worked over and over again, as a microcosm of Indian life. Just enough of each to ensure that things continue on is such a land.
23 December 2007
12 December 2007
Udaipur, Rajasthan
Cows, dogs, pigs, goats, birds, people, monkeys, all battling for the same roadside scraps, every step of life in this land a harsh struggle for survival, every glance filled with a particular creature trying to feed an empty stomach, survive another day, to do it once more, what a burden, I wonder if or how they feel, if the burden registers if its all you've ever known.
The train rocks rhythmically, swaying side to side, early morning mist breaking over green tilled fields, a quick glance could be home, so far away, longer looks and differences are discerned, square brick hovels, ancient communist tractors, ragged power lines, weighed down by age and neglect, have they ever worked, I wonder.
Happiness is being aware of whats going on in the present moment, free from both clinging and aversion. A happy person cherishes the wonders taking place in the present moment. A cool brezze, the morning sky, a golden flower, the smile of a child. A happy person can appreciate these things without being bound by them. Understanding that all things in life are impermanent, a happy person does not get consumed by such pleasures. A happy person thus lives in ease, free from all worry and fear. Because he understands that the flower will soon wilt, he is not upset when it does.
Thich Nhat Hahn
Rajasthan pics online.... http://picasaweb.google.com/JeffreyHDow/Rajasthan
The train rocks rhythmically, swaying side to side, early morning mist breaking over green tilled fields, a quick glance could be home, so far away, longer looks and differences are discerned, square brick hovels, ancient communist tractors, ragged power lines, weighed down by age and neglect, have they ever worked, I wonder.
Happiness is being aware of whats going on in the present moment, free from both clinging and aversion. A happy person cherishes the wonders taking place in the present moment. A cool brezze, the morning sky, a golden flower, the smile of a child. A happy person can appreciate these things without being bound by them. Understanding that all things in life are impermanent, a happy person does not get consumed by such pleasures. A happy person thus lives in ease, free from all worry and fear. Because he understands that the flower will soon wilt, he is not upset when it does.
Thich Nhat Hahn
Rajasthan pics online.... http://picasaweb.google.com/JeffreyHDow/Rajasthan
Bundi, Rajasthan
"The Palace of Bundi, even in broad daylight, is such a palace as men build for themselves in uneasy dreams-the work of goblins rather than men" Rudyard Kipling
I tuck into a book and a masala chai, aroma of lunch lofting in the air, the city below alive in the midday sun, buzzing.
Walking backwards, through blue streets, faded colors spewn like fireworks, doorways adorned, women cloaked. Children clatter, smiles, genuine smiles, practicing their simple emglish, their hellos ringing, enthusiasm in fleeting glances, the maze reverses.
The medevil fortress towering overhead warrants merely a glance, offset against this bright human landscape. I'm in a place I want to be, I smile at ease, feel in touch, feel free, unburdened, so easy to find, and stay. The bus is arriving a the station, me, crushed next to the dusty window, a small crowd around me, flexing their small English muscles, intensely happy in eachothers company, smiles and nods filling the large language gaps. I drop a few rupee coins in the blind mans silver bucket, the sound they give seems amplified, as my ears maybe hear as his for a quick moment, then he is away, boarding the bus, trying to fill his stomach , hopes high on this new morning, how hard his life must be, but still so dignified, I cannot grasp.
Walking towards the bus depot, only a name in my mind of this distant place im heading towards, overheard in a cafe some days before, taken note of, stored in the back of my mind in an afterthought. Bundi, the couple says, a special kind of place.
In Pushkar, I stroll amongst flocks of tourists, flocking liek flocks do, everyone seeming to find comfort in the Indianized version of home, minus me. The comforts do not excite or entice me, they dull, they bore, I yawn, rack my brain for somewhere to excape this tourist excape. There is a place, I remember, that sounded special. So easy to change directions when the road is home, and the only one to answer to is oneself, too easy perhaps, one can travel in circles and never arrive, but freedom is precious, one of the great attributes of the road.
"The land was sacred. but it wasnt political history that made it so. Religious myths touched every part of the land outside colonial Goa. Story within story, fable within fable; that was what people saw and felt in their bones. Those were the myths, about gods and the heroes of the epics, that gave antiquity and wonder to the eart people lived on."
VS Naipaul, India: A Million Mutinees Now
I tuck into a book and a masala chai, aroma of lunch lofting in the air, the city below alive in the midday sun, buzzing.
Walking backwards, through blue streets, faded colors spewn like fireworks, doorways adorned, women cloaked. Children clatter, smiles, genuine smiles, practicing their simple emglish, their hellos ringing, enthusiasm in fleeting glances, the maze reverses.
The medevil fortress towering overhead warrants merely a glance, offset against this bright human landscape. I'm in a place I want to be, I smile at ease, feel in touch, feel free, unburdened, so easy to find, and stay. The bus is arriving a the station, me, crushed next to the dusty window, a small crowd around me, flexing their small English muscles, intensely happy in eachothers company, smiles and nods filling the large language gaps. I drop a few rupee coins in the blind mans silver bucket, the sound they give seems amplified, as my ears maybe hear as his for a quick moment, then he is away, boarding the bus, trying to fill his stomach , hopes high on this new morning, how hard his life must be, but still so dignified, I cannot grasp.
Walking towards the bus depot, only a name in my mind of this distant place im heading towards, overheard in a cafe some days before, taken note of, stored in the back of my mind in an afterthought. Bundi, the couple says, a special kind of place.
In Pushkar, I stroll amongst flocks of tourists, flocking liek flocks do, everyone seeming to find comfort in the Indianized version of home, minus me. The comforts do not excite or entice me, they dull, they bore, I yawn, rack my brain for somewhere to excape this tourist excape. There is a place, I remember, that sounded special. So easy to change directions when the road is home, and the only one to answer to is oneself, too easy perhaps, one can travel in circles and never arrive, but freedom is precious, one of the great attributes of the road.
"The land was sacred. but it wasnt political history that made it so. Religious myths touched every part of the land outside colonial Goa. Story within story, fable within fable; that was what people saw and felt in their bones. Those were the myths, about gods and the heroes of the epics, that gave antiquity and wonder to the eart people lived on."
VS Naipaul, India: A Million Mutinees Now
07 December 2007
Jodphur, Rajasthan...The Blue City in The Land of Kings
One overnight train trip from Old Delhi rail station, shuddering and shaking and rocking, steel grating on steel, steam whistles and chai sellers halting dreams before they begin.
The Rajasthan countryside seen from behind the safety of tinted glass, all the same, baron, sparse vegetation, concrete bunker houses scattered, Indians seeming to not care for the asthetics of archetecture, at least since Independence, function over beauty I suppose is the mindset of limited means.
The Blue City, the old town of Jodphur, houses of the Brahmin (priestly) caste painted in an ocean blue, as to provide an oasis for the eyes in an otherwise bleak atmosphere. Narrow alleyways, the blues of homes offset against the vivid reds and yellows of saris, womens passing like floating apparitions, eyes struggling to absorb , a feast for the senses. Towering impossibly above, carved into a sheer sandstone bluff in 1459 by the ruling Maharaja of the time, Meheranagh Fort, a marvel. Protected for hundereds of years against invading hordes by sheer 200ft walls, still standing watch proudly over its city. My first taste of Rajasthan, the Land of Kings, is color, everywhere, even the desert shades of brown, offset against the Muslim prayer calls echoing through the city, blazingly bright, hauntingly beautiful.
Photos in Picassa.
http://picasaweb.google.com/JeffreyHDow/Rajasthan
The Rajasthan countryside seen from behind the safety of tinted glass, all the same, baron, sparse vegetation, concrete bunker houses scattered, Indians seeming to not care for the asthetics of archetecture, at least since Independence, function over beauty I suppose is the mindset of limited means.
The Blue City, the old town of Jodphur, houses of the Brahmin (priestly) caste painted in an ocean blue, as to provide an oasis for the eyes in an otherwise bleak atmosphere. Narrow alleyways, the blues of homes offset against the vivid reds and yellows of saris, womens passing like floating apparitions, eyes struggling to absorb , a feast for the senses. Towering impossibly above, carved into a sheer sandstone bluff in 1459 by the ruling Maharaja of the time, Meheranagh Fort, a marvel. Protected for hundereds of years against invading hordes by sheer 200ft walls, still standing watch proudly over its city. My first taste of Rajasthan, the Land of Kings, is color, everywhere, even the desert shades of brown, offset against the Muslim prayer calls echoing through the city, blazingly bright, hauntingly beautiful.
Photos in Picassa.
http://picasaweb.google.com/JeffreyHDow/Rajasthan
04 December 2007
Varanasi
There is no escape from the hecticness of India. Entering the miniscule , overstaffed, and underfunded Varanasi International Airport to find every flight on the ancient scoreboard-type
flight list to be delayed or cancelled. Luckily, mine is only a delay. I will arrive in Delhi tonight, with fingers crossed. Other Westerners enter, dumbfounded at the scene of chaos that soon unfolds before their eyes. I sit and smile. This is India.
Kites, like birds, flew over the city at dusk, peering down at the maze of the old city, silence up in the heavens, masking the commotion unfolding below.
Varanasi was a wonderful place, and I am grateful that I made this pimgrimage, like so many other pious Hindus, even if just to observe. It was neither as scary nor dirty nor chaotic as I was prepared for; there was serenity to be found on the banks of the Ganges, as well as many kind locals, their religiosity shining through in actions and white smiles. This was a holy city, and I felt it in every step, every narrow passage leading to an obscure shrine, the constant ringing of temple bells from above and below, the omnipresence of holy men and barefoot colorful pilgrims. But it is the calm peace of the Mother Ganges that I will take with me in my mind; even though choked by putrid filth, it shone of a cleansing quality evades rational thought.
This is India.
I've put Varanasi pics on my picassa site, take a look.
Namaste.
flight list to be delayed or cancelled. Luckily, mine is only a delay. I will arrive in Delhi tonight, with fingers crossed. Other Westerners enter, dumbfounded at the scene of chaos that soon unfolds before their eyes. I sit and smile. This is India.
Kites, like birds, flew over the city at dusk, peering down at the maze of the old city, silence up in the heavens, masking the commotion unfolding below.
Varanasi was a wonderful place, and I am grateful that I made this pimgrimage, like so many other pious Hindus, even if just to observe. It was neither as scary nor dirty nor chaotic as I was prepared for; there was serenity to be found on the banks of the Ganges, as well as many kind locals, their religiosity shining through in actions and white smiles. This was a holy city, and I felt it in every step, every narrow passage leading to an obscure shrine, the constant ringing of temple bells from above and below, the omnipresence of holy men and barefoot colorful pilgrims. But it is the calm peace of the Mother Ganges that I will take with me in my mind; even though choked by putrid filth, it shone of a cleansing quality evades rational thought.
This is India.
I've put Varanasi pics on my picassa site, take a look.
Namaste.
02 December 2007
Varanasi
For Hindus, Varanasi (Benares) is the holiest place on earth, and the chosen home of the Hindu god Shiva. Those who die in Varanasi are guaranteed Moksha, or liberation from the cycle of death an rebirth, no matter what they may have done in their lifetimes. Thousands come daily to bathe in the sacred waters of the Ganges (Mother Ganga). For many devout Hindus, a visit to Benares is roughly akin to the Muslim Haj to Mecca. Around the city, dead bodies are a common sight, delivered to the roaring funeral pyres with the traditional chant, "Ram Nam Satyi Hai."
The Buddha came to Sarnath, on the outskirts of Benares, 2500 years ago to preach his first sermon after attaining allightenment under the Bodyi tree. He delivered his sermon in what was a thriving North Indian trading town on the banks of the Ganges. Benares is one of the oldest continuously inhabited cities in the world, an imensely intense and enchanting maze of narrow alleyways filled with cows and small shops emptying out at the numerous Ghats spread along the river. Its sights and sounds and smells never cease to amaze.
I am back in India.
What a wild place.
My third time, but it always feels like the first.
Sitting in the back of a cycle rickshaw, the old man in rags peddling the last few kilometers through the dense early morning fog towards the Nepali-Indo border post. It feels like the most desolate place in the world in this early morning chill. Figures appear like ghosts out of the thick white soup, cloaked in homespun cloth, heads down, shielding from the cold. A hazy orange globe rising over the derelect border crossing marking the dawn of a new day, a new adventure, a new experience. Faces get browner and leaner, the stares more intense, it seems, at ever step I take. The usual border grime is omnipresent; why border towns in most of the world attract filth and scum I do not know, but this place is no exception. I walk on.
It hits like a hammer, the intensity of the stares, makes me suddenly bashful, forgetting this is the norm now. There are people, swarming, everywhere, everywhere you look, surounding everything you see, a great swelling mass of humanity at every glance. This place defies every Western notion of existence at every step, every move, everything is alive, laid bare for you to observe, no cloaks, no mirrors, just life. Stifling, overwhelming, beautiful, fascinating.
The Buddha came to Sarnath, on the outskirts of Benares, 2500 years ago to preach his first sermon after attaining allightenment under the Bodyi tree. He delivered his sermon in what was a thriving North Indian trading town on the banks of the Ganges. Benares is one of the oldest continuously inhabited cities in the world, an imensely intense and enchanting maze of narrow alleyways filled with cows and small shops emptying out at the numerous Ghats spread along the river. Its sights and sounds and smells never cease to amaze.
I am back in India.
What a wild place.
My third time, but it always feels like the first.
Sitting in the back of a cycle rickshaw, the old man in rags peddling the last few kilometers through the dense early morning fog towards the Nepali-Indo border post. It feels like the most desolate place in the world in this early morning chill. Figures appear like ghosts out of the thick white soup, cloaked in homespun cloth, heads down, shielding from the cold. A hazy orange globe rising over the derelect border crossing marking the dawn of a new day, a new adventure, a new experience. Faces get browner and leaner, the stares more intense, it seems, at ever step I take. The usual border grime is omnipresent; why border towns in most of the world attract filth and scum I do not know, but this place is no exception. I walk on.
It hits like a hammer, the intensity of the stares, makes me suddenly bashful, forgetting this is the norm now. There are people, swarming, everywhere, everywhere you look, surounding everything you see, a great swelling mass of humanity at every glance. This place defies every Western notion of existence at every step, every move, everything is alive, laid bare for you to observe, no cloaks, no mirrors, just life. Stifling, overwhelming, beautiful, fascinating.
28 November 2007
Steve McCurry
"If given a chance to turn back, I would not take it. Therefore, the decision to go ahead is my own responsibility, to be adopted with a whole heart."
Last night at the Pilgrim's Bookshop in Thamel (which is amazing in its own right, possibly the best in South Asia) I stumbled upon a magnificent photo book, that kept my gaze and mind captivated until the store was closing, and I was ushered out into the hazy Kathmandu evening, in a daze. Many of you have seen Steve McCurry's famous Afghan Girl photo from National Geographic, which is a magnificent indicator of how wonderful his entire collection is.
If you have a moment, and are entertained by beautiful photos (with an emphasis on his India gallery), check out http://www.stevenmccurry.com/ or better yet, check out his book, South Southeast, which is the entire collection of his photos from India, Afghanistan, Burma, and Thailand. This man is a genius, and his India journal is almost as brilliant as his shots. Hope you enjoy that as much as I did.
I recieved got a quick touch up on some old "ink" last nite from my friend Mohan, over at Mohan's Tattoo Inn. He does brilliant work (he studied in Korea for years, and is "famous" here in Nepal), uses all sterilized equipment with new needles, autoclaves, gloves, etc., and is a really nice guy to boot. My tattoo talley is up to 3, and though they are addictive, I have promised myself no more (at least in the near future). Check out Mohan if you have an extra minute...
http://www.mohanstattooinn.com/
Heres a shot of Mohan putting the traditional Yapese dolphins on my back about a month ago..I had been waiting to get these for awhile living in the Pacific, but glad I waited to have someone of his caliber do the work, as his lines came out beautifully. Thank you Mohan!~
Last night at the Pilgrim's Bookshop in Thamel (which is amazing in its own right, possibly the best in South Asia) I stumbled upon a magnificent photo book, that kept my gaze and mind captivated until the store was closing, and I was ushered out into the hazy Kathmandu evening, in a daze. Many of you have seen Steve McCurry's famous Afghan Girl photo from National Geographic, which is a magnificent indicator of how wonderful his entire collection is.
If you have a moment, and are entertained by beautiful photos (with an emphasis on his India gallery), check out http://www.stevenmccurry.com/ or better yet, check out his book, South Southeast, which is the entire collection of his photos from India, Afghanistan, Burma, and Thailand. This man is a genius, and his India journal is almost as brilliant as his shots. Hope you enjoy that as much as I did.
I recieved got a quick touch up on some old "ink" last nite from my friend Mohan, over at Mohan's Tattoo Inn. He does brilliant work (he studied in Korea for years, and is "famous" here in Nepal), uses all sterilized equipment with new needles, autoclaves, gloves, etc., and is a really nice guy to boot. My tattoo talley is up to 3, and though they are addictive, I have promised myself no more (at least in the near future). Check out Mohan if you have an extra minute...
http://www.mohanstattooinn.com/
Heres a shot of Mohan putting the traditional Yapese dolphins on my back about a month ago..I had been waiting to get these for awhile living in the Pacific, but glad I waited to have someone of his caliber do the work, as his lines came out beautifully. Thank you Mohan!~
27 November 2007
Better Pics Uploaded!
I was finally able to locate the ellusive "high speed internet cafe" here in the rusticly dial up
laden capital city of Nepal, and thus, was able to put some better quality pics on my Picassa site, so browse away, peoples!
http://picasaweb.google.com/JeffreyHDow/Nepal
India visa has been arranged (after many hours of lines, repeated inquiries, and a near scare of being denied), various ailments under the control of dodgy Indian antibiotics,
and the urge to get out of Kathmandu growing daily as a result of the now week-long garbage strike, which has left huge stinking rotting piles of refuse on all corners. Does add a bit of character, but this city is not lacking in character to begin with. Back to the Indian visa topic.
Just a quick thought on this-the common western mentality seems to be that we are entitled to visas to "3rd world" countries, (possibly a vestige of the colonial mindset to enter as we please). People show up in line wearing their trashy traveling gear, speaking to the embassy employees like they are low class, and expect to get their visa, no worries. It was actually gratifying in some senses to see many of these startled travelers denied for their entry visas, walking away in shock. COME ON PEOPLE! Wear shoes to your visa interview! Maybe in 50 years, when the economic balances have been completely reversed, will people of the west come to their senses and treat people of developing countries with the respect and dignity that they deserve. To the reverse situation, seeing the preperation and care given by citizens of a country like Nepal in the slim hope of obtaining a visa to go to a country like America is amazing. I have spent a few days at the American embassy here in Kathmandu doing school research at the American Center, and the emotions that you can see attached, the hopes, despair, elations, everything was on plain display, and was quite moving. The consuler officers at the Embassy have a very difficult job, one that I do not envy.
I will be heading down to the birthplace of Sakyumani Buddha, Lumbini, on the southern border of Nepal, tomorrow for a few days of wandering and relfection, gathering my thoughts and sensibility before plunging headlong into the maddness of India. Varanasi will be my first destination upon crossing the border in a few day, which from all accounts is one of the most intensly overwhelming places in the world. Heres the Wiki link if you feel the urge to read up on the holiest city in Hinduism:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Varanasi
Should be plenty of pictures to come in the near future.
Namaste.
laden capital city of Nepal, and thus, was able to put some better quality pics on my Picassa site, so browse away, peoples!
http://picasaweb.google.com/JeffreyHDow/Nepal
India visa has been arranged (after many hours of lines, repeated inquiries, and a near scare of being denied), various ailments under the control of dodgy Indian antibiotics,
and the urge to get out of Kathmandu growing daily as a result of the now week-long garbage strike, which has left huge stinking rotting piles of refuse on all corners. Does add a bit of character, but this city is not lacking in character to begin with. Back to the Indian visa topic.
Just a quick thought on this-the common western mentality seems to be that we are entitled to visas to "3rd world" countries, (possibly a vestige of the colonial mindset to enter as we please). People show up in line wearing their trashy traveling gear, speaking to the embassy employees like they are low class, and expect to get their visa, no worries. It was actually gratifying in some senses to see many of these startled travelers denied for their entry visas, walking away in shock. COME ON PEOPLE! Wear shoes to your visa interview! Maybe in 50 years, when the economic balances have been completely reversed, will people of the west come to their senses and treat people of developing countries with the respect and dignity that they deserve. To the reverse situation, seeing the preperation and care given by citizens of a country like Nepal in the slim hope of obtaining a visa to go to a country like America is amazing. I have spent a few days at the American embassy here in Kathmandu doing school research at the American Center, and the emotions that you can see attached, the hopes, despair, elations, everything was on plain display, and was quite moving. The consuler officers at the Embassy have a very difficult job, one that I do not envy.
I will be heading down to the birthplace of Sakyumani Buddha, Lumbini, on the southern border of Nepal, tomorrow for a few days of wandering and relfection, gathering my thoughts and sensibility before plunging headlong into the maddness of India. Varanasi will be my first destination upon crossing the border in a few day, which from all accounts is one of the most intensly overwhelming places in the world. Heres the Wiki link if you feel the urge to read up on the holiest city in Hinduism:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Varanasi
Should be plenty of pictures to come in the near future.
Namaste.
21 November 2007
19 November 2007
Annapurna Trekking
Just completed the Around Annapurna trek, a 180km stroll around the Annapurna range of Nepal. An amazing experience, which, despite a nasty cold and a sore knee, I hope to do again one day. Some clippings from my daily journal, and some select pics from the hike...
11.1 Bagarchap, Manang District
The path follows the steep canyonsides north, meandering across foot bridges ands the stream remnants of powerful mountain waterfalls. There are so many waterfalls cutting jagged conyons that one grows numb to their thundering beauty. Brightly colored pony trains pass on the narrow trail, kicking up clouds of fine dust, their bells clanging in arrival and departure. After many hours, the path rises steeply, steadily, and I find myself in a fine rhythm, feeling my breath strongly, focused foward, legs burning. The stone chortons marking the newly Tibetan villages welcome me to my resting place for the evening. The night carries with it the first real chill that i have felt in a long time.
11.2 Chame, Manang District
Enormous hawks soaring on thermals, I am looking at them eye level. Bundles of maize and dried rice stalks stacked in ancient sheds, hidden behind crumbling stone walls, meandering through medevil villages. Crooked legged porters hauling huge wicker baskets laden down for the villages northward, the only trucks in these parts, walking the same paths that people have walked for thousands of years, these ancient trading routes, stones worn smooth underfoot. Drinking milk tea with new friends, the hulk of Manasulu, one of the tallest peaks in the world, as a quaint backdrop. A few words with a Sherpa guide over yet another cup of milk tea, eating dinner in this tiny smoke filled low roofed local meeting house, the lights went out in the village, and we all sat in silence around the wood burning stove for a long minute. Departing with a friendly namaste, a Sanskrit word for greeting and parting, that means, "I salute you."
"the meeting and parting of living things is as when clouds having come together drift apart again, or as when the leaves are parted from the trees. There is nothing we may call our own in a union that is but a dream."
William Blake
11.3 Pisang Village, Manang
Stumbling like a drunkard through this ancient fortress village. What surrounds me does not seem real. Towering white massifs, high dry plains, colorful pony caravans, a band of youths, only boys, carving an impossible road out of the cliffside, using only hand tools and a wagon with mishapen wooden wheels. Prayer flags fluttering furiously in the cool wind, coming from a long way, just as I.
I've felt a certain magic in the air this entire day. A high pine grove, wind whistling through the pine needles, my mind clear, nothing but surrounding bliss for company.
The landscape is hallucinatory.
11.11 Thorong Pedi Base Camp, Manang
Sitting in the partylike atmosphere of the solar heated dining room here in Thorong Pedi, literally, the foot of the pass, the 5460m pass that we will be climbing tomorrow, the highest in the world. Listening to such a variety of accents, a true global gathering, everyone buzzing with nervous energy. My knee hurts, but this was expected after injuring it 4 days ago. With no option other than backtracking (the only airstrip in Manang not operating until december), I have to cross this huge pass and tackle what will be an even harder decent, 1600meters down to the ancient village of Mukthinath. I look foward to the challenge.
the beauty of the mountains continues to amaze me, leaving me breathless, not a hard feet at 4600meters (about 14000ft). the brown stone cliffs framing a deep blue sky, the blinding whiteness of the tall peaks in the midday sun. the path cutting a ribbon up the glacier carved valleys, all the images, though ephemeral, make a lasting impression, I hope. We will set off in the dark tomorrow to not get stuck on the high pass in the heavy afternoon squalls.
11.14 Dana, Mustang district
The last golden rays of sunshine reflect off the high peaks rising above the near verdant, terraced hills. Water comes in irregular spurts from the village water tap onto the cold stones. My knee throbs, badly aches, 16 days now of daily workouts carrying my 40lb pack amidst the highest peaks in the world. We crossed the high pass in brilliant sunshine, deep snows reflecting, the altitude leaving me and my friend gasping for air, legs and minds pumping, arriving spent, yet emboldened in Mukthinath. Tibetan carpet sellers lining the dirt streets, local wine toasted by candlelight.
the snows on the peaks have taken an orange glow-a quick glance would mistake water for fire-and like that, it is gone, only shadows, as all moments.
"the absurdity of a life that may well end before one understands it does not relieve one of the duty to live it through as bravely and as generously as possible"
P. Mattheisson
11.1 Bagarchap, Manang District
The path follows the steep canyonsides north, meandering across foot bridges ands the stream remnants of powerful mountain waterfalls. There are so many waterfalls cutting jagged conyons that one grows numb to their thundering beauty. Brightly colored pony trains pass on the narrow trail, kicking up clouds of fine dust, their bells clanging in arrival and departure. After many hours, the path rises steeply, steadily, and I find myself in a fine rhythm, feeling my breath strongly, focused foward, legs burning. The stone chortons marking the newly Tibetan villages welcome me to my resting place for the evening. The night carries with it the first real chill that i have felt in a long time.
11.2 Chame, Manang District
Enormous hawks soaring on thermals, I am looking at them eye level. Bundles of maize and dried rice stalks stacked in ancient sheds, hidden behind crumbling stone walls, meandering through medevil villages. Crooked legged porters hauling huge wicker baskets laden down for the villages northward, the only trucks in these parts, walking the same paths that people have walked for thousands of years, these ancient trading routes, stones worn smooth underfoot. Drinking milk tea with new friends, the hulk of Manasulu, one of the tallest peaks in the world, as a quaint backdrop. A few words with a Sherpa guide over yet another cup of milk tea, eating dinner in this tiny smoke filled low roofed local meeting house, the lights went out in the village, and we all sat in silence around the wood burning stove for a long minute. Departing with a friendly namaste, a Sanskrit word for greeting and parting, that means, "I salute you."
"the meeting and parting of living things is as when clouds having come together drift apart again, or as when the leaves are parted from the trees. There is nothing we may call our own in a union that is but a dream."
William Blake
11.3 Pisang Village, Manang
Stumbling like a drunkard through this ancient fortress village. What surrounds me does not seem real. Towering white massifs, high dry plains, colorful pony caravans, a band of youths, only boys, carving an impossible road out of the cliffside, using only hand tools and a wagon with mishapen wooden wheels. Prayer flags fluttering furiously in the cool wind, coming from a long way, just as I.
I've felt a certain magic in the air this entire day. A high pine grove, wind whistling through the pine needles, my mind clear, nothing but surrounding bliss for company.
The landscape is hallucinatory.
11.11 Thorong Pedi Base Camp, Manang
Sitting in the partylike atmosphere of the solar heated dining room here in Thorong Pedi, literally, the foot of the pass, the 5460m pass that we will be climbing tomorrow, the highest in the world. Listening to such a variety of accents, a true global gathering, everyone buzzing with nervous energy. My knee hurts, but this was expected after injuring it 4 days ago. With no option other than backtracking (the only airstrip in Manang not operating until december), I have to cross this huge pass and tackle what will be an even harder decent, 1600meters down to the ancient village of Mukthinath. I look foward to the challenge.
the beauty of the mountains continues to amaze me, leaving me breathless, not a hard feet at 4600meters (about 14000ft). the brown stone cliffs framing a deep blue sky, the blinding whiteness of the tall peaks in the midday sun. the path cutting a ribbon up the glacier carved valleys, all the images, though ephemeral, make a lasting impression, I hope. We will set off in the dark tomorrow to not get stuck on the high pass in the heavy afternoon squalls.
11.14 Dana, Mustang district
The last golden rays of sunshine reflect off the high peaks rising above the near verdant, terraced hills. Water comes in irregular spurts from the village water tap onto the cold stones. My knee throbs, badly aches, 16 days now of daily workouts carrying my 40lb pack amidst the highest peaks in the world. We crossed the high pass in brilliant sunshine, deep snows reflecting, the altitude leaving me and my friend gasping for air, legs and minds pumping, arriving spent, yet emboldened in Mukthinath. Tibetan carpet sellers lining the dirt streets, local wine toasted by candlelight.
the snows on the peaks have taken an orange glow-a quick glance would mistake water for fire-and like that, it is gone, only shadows, as all moments.
"the absurdity of a life that may well end before one understands it does not relieve one of the duty to live it through as bravely and as generously as possible"
P. Mattheisson
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