Nepal Travelog: Annapurna impressions

This morning I woke up in my own little cabin in the courtyard of a mountain village 'hotel'. From outside I could hear next door's occupants gushing about the glorious weather as they brushed their teeth around the communal tap and stone basin. My curiosity piqued, I popped my head above the warmth of the heavy duvet to peer through the gap in the curtains. Sure enough, there was a streak of that primary, elemental blue that could only mean that this day in the mountains was going to be bright and hot and still. So what better plan to make than to ascend another kilometre into yet thinner air to visit a lake, sacred to the buddhist faith and encased eternally in ice and snow?

I've just finished my 4th day on the Annapurna circuit, a day I should be spending 'resting and acclimatising' at 3,600 m in Manang before making the final push for the Thorung Pass, itself situated at a height of 5,400m. As it turned out, I simply could not bring myself to spend such a perfect day sedentary in the teahouses and bakeries of this charming and surprisingly well-equipped village. This is a walk I have wanted to do for a very long time. In fact, when it comes to thru-hiking or trekking, the Annapurna Circuit must be one of the best in the world, and so far, it has delivered; but not perhaps for the reasons I expected.

The mountains, of course, are the most awesome on earth, and all you need is good weather to appreciate them. Autumn they say is the absolute best time for clear skies and good views. And sure enough, the first couple of days were a little hazy, with views of the higher peaks totally occluded by midday. But as I have gained altitude, the air has become clearer and fresher, with the result that you can make out all the twisted folds in the glaciers which hang on the higher slopes of the Annapurna massif.

The landscape too has changed. Four days ago at Besisahar, I started the circuit surrounded by subtropical flora, which has steadily given way to heady scented pines, scrub and what looks very much like volcanic tuffeta in the badlands surrounding Manang. And of course, it has got colder. Not that you notice when the sun is out, but as soon as it slips behind a cloud or sets behind the range, you understand why all the books say you need to pack such hefty thermal bulk.

But what I have found most warming and most pleasantly surprisingly about this whole trip has been the gentle sensibility of these mountain people.

Extremes of temperature and a diversity of flora you can find on almost any mountain walk in the world, but what is unique to the Annapurna Circuit is that you move from the Hindi villages of the lower valleys to the Buddhist ones of higher up. I must confess that I know very little about these religions, or the subtle differences between them. But already in Kathmandu I got a sense of just how mutually tolerant these systems are of each other. Strolling round the city on the day of a strike, I met the acquaintance of a group of friendly and knowledgable students who, as is the custom here, took me on a tour of the sights of their city in exchange for a few hundred roupees. Moving from one temple to the next, Hindi to Buddhist and back again, they undertook and embraced the rituals of each faith as if it were their only persuasion. Besides this admirable ability to coexist, in the raw environment of the mountains you really get a sense for how both religions continue to be influenced by ancient animistic beliefs. This is particularly true with the variation of Buddhism which is practised here in the higher valleys where the population hail originally from Tibet. Come here and you will see what I mean, for if you have any sense of wonder, I guarantee that after a couple of days you too will be unable to pass a bell without ringing it nor a set of prayer wheels without setting them spinning.

And I have been constantly amazed by the beauty of the children: little Asian Botticellis, happily clad bright plastic boots and dirty market clothes with incongruous western marketing slogans emblazoned on their tiny down jackets. Typically I come across the older ones eight, nine and ten years old, chasing iron hoops through the cobbled streets, while their little brothers and sisters sit cross legged on wooden benches, only their angelic face exposed to the bright sunshine and framed by a droopy-eared woollen hat. And only today there was the image of a young child idly toying with a prayer wheel as their playmate squatted down in the mud of the gutter to find out what exactly is glistening down there. Often there is a greeting when I pass, and sometimes a playful curiosity is taken in my trekking poles or my camera, or perhaps the chocloate that might lie concealed inside a zipped pocket. But always there are smiles, which in turn disarm you, break down all your barriers and open you up to the simple beauty of the world.

Smiles like this look best on the lips of children, but almost every Nepali I meet has such a smile for me. I love mountains, and mountain air and light that would make the very colours of the world vibrate. But what I love most about being here are in these mountains are such smiles. They colour the landscape of my experience more than the rose-gold peaks of the sunset ranges, morethan the ghostly porcelain of a hanging glacier, and more than the primary, elemental blue of my morning sky.

Nepal Travelog: beginnings

Sunday, 7 April 2013

I have been in Kathmandu for 2 whole days now and have achieved quite a lot in that short time. I've toured the city, got my TIMS permit and Annapurna entry cards, rented warmer clothes, booked a seat on a bus to the trailhead paid my room and stocked up with some high carb supplies for the first part of the trip. And so tomorrow starts a new chapter, or the Nepal adventure proper if you like, as I begin the Annapurna circuit.

But what I really want to put down here is just how difficult it is to shift gears from normal, work-a-day life to travelling mode. Maybe it is because I am at a watershed moment. One month ago I quit my job and since then, have been putting in 14 hour days and more writing articles for publication as part of an ambitious self-improvement exercise. And it has paid off: not only did I submit my articles, I also somehow found the time to secure summer work and enroll in a course for the autumn. But there have been casualties. Latterly, I could feel that I was losing it slightly, that old familiar feeling of being unable to switch off, like being addicted to solving problems and never quite happy unless you can find one to deal with. Not exactly a recipe for nirvana.

And so it goes with these days in Kathmandu. True I have had a lot to arrange, and I cannot really imagine signing up to a trekking party and being denied the opportunity to experience the Himalayas on my own terms. But with all this extra decision making and obligation it kind of feels like I have not yet arrived; or worse, that I have arrived but not in my own head.

All this was going through my mind the other night as I lay in bed, jet-lagged and unable to sleep, and it was then that I came up with a couple of strategies (note the language: strategies not solutions). 

1. Mindfulness. By which I mean, breaking the circle of living in your own head by any means you want. I used to meditate routinely, twice a day in my younger days. But these days it is enough for me to chant my mantra for a few minutes to break out of a vicious circle.

2. Others. Others are often a burden for us introverts. Sometimes they can drain our energy and prevent us from processing our experience to the extent that we would like. But only sometimes. We are all placed on a spectrum when it comes to the polar opposites that psychologists so love to play with. As much as they prevent us from processing when we need to, just as much do they force us out into the world when we are only navel-gazing.

3. Decisiveness. A difficult one for me. The other two I have down pat, but this one... The difficultly perhaps lies in this. Knowing what you want is one thing, but being prepared to shut the door and stop looking back when you make a decision is another. I just have one piece of advice on this one, mostly for myself. I saw this posted on an internet forum about hiking in Nepal:

Q. What is the best hike in Nepal?

A. The one you're doing.

For me, this simple answer speak volumes. It says: open your heart and suspend your judgement, of others and most importantly, of yourself.

Time out for travelling should be an opportunity to explore different selves as well as different others. Knowing what you like is presumably what you hate, and why you have come here in the first place. As such, you have to feel on your pulse the truth that learning new things about yourself can only happen if you let down your barriers and affirm what you see.

The tears of leaving...

After 7 years working as an English teacher in Marburg, Germany, I am leaving... this weekend. Looking back, I see a jumble of impressions, dominated by the monumental sadness of my divorce. 

Here is what I have to say.

It is a very strange feeling to be leaving here, the rhythms sights and sounds of this little town have seeped into my pores throughout the years to the extent that I feel it part of my identity. I know that I will feel very confused and distressed over the next few days as I get used to another me, but that is also what I wanted when I made the decision to leave at the end of November after so much soul-searching: to stop sleep-walking through life and put myself in a new and challenging environment where I can feel the thrill of growing and fulfilling my potential. If there is one thing I have learned about myself post-Maria, it is that no amount of material comfort and stability can stand in for the fact that I need to feel as if I am pushing myself, doing something inspiring and making a constructive contribution if I am to gain any satisfaction from life. Not everyone would frame their life in this way, and doubtless my values are in some way a product of the particularly long and winding road that has taken me to this point; but everyone I have spoken to about my reasons for leaving has, without exception, acknowledged that this is the right path for me. Nevertheless, what is right, is not always what is easiest, and it is particularly difficult to keep your focus when your eyes are filled with the tears of leaving.

Cognitive Poetics and the Dilemma of Writing

"Who are you?"

I should clarify that this is not an existential question thrown at your eyes to prod your soul. No. It is an earnest question that I feel I must always ask before I begin to write. I cannot see you and we most likely have never met, nor will we ever. I can take no pleasure in watching your eyebrows rise, or a dimple appear on your cheek as you deny me the smile that would otherwise be my full reward. And although you could, if sufficiently touched, respond by leaving me a comment in the text box below, the chances are that this is the first and only step on a longer journey of mutual acquaintance which we will never walk together...

So in reality, this is a question addressed to myself, and one which I badly need to answer if I am to write at all; for I have lately come to realise that the burning motivation I have to write, and the intense sense of purpose it brings to me, are themselves only the result of the delight I take in connecting with another mind. 

To wit, an anecdote...

Last nite I met old friend whom I had not seen in around 15 years. Naturally, it could have been an awkward evening of stunted conversation and disappointment as we both realised how little we now had in common. As it turned out, it was a delight, mostly because she remains a very good conversationalist: entertaining, attentive and empathic. 

In fact, so caught up were we in the simple, yet sadly rare pleasure of conversing, that much of the evening was spent alternately defining, praising and mourning the loss of this art. We spoke for example about a common gripe, which is when a conversation begins, but is very soon after interrupted or abandoned completely before you feel you have had a chance thoroughly to explore it. I must confess that when my mother and sister are together they excel in this sport, driving me crazy as a result. Certainly it is one of my pet-hates to have to skim pebble-like over the surface of an issue, able only to utter trite truisms; but beyond this, and here perhaps I can only speak for myself, there is also something downright depressing about being denied the possibility to make a more profound connection with another mind. It only takes a couple of thwarted attempts to build a deeper and more solid foundation to another mind for me to find myself reeling in, packing up and gazing out.

When I reflect upon the intense pleasure I feel in making these connections, I am reminded of a very interesting body of literary theory which I only stumbled across when I was preparing for the defence of my Ph.D. Most basically, Cognitive Poetics seeks to explain the literary with reference to the findings of Cognitive Psychology, which in itself is informed by evolutionary theory. Its starting point is a series of simple questions: Why do we read literature? Why are we interested in characters that don't exist? Why do we take pleasure in the intricate nuances of meaning generated by a proficient poet? The answer, cognitive theorists would have us believe, is that as a social and cooperative species, whose young require a long period of care, education and upbringing, it is of immense evolutionary advantage to humans to want to understand the minds of others. After all, if we are intrinsically motivated to empathise with other minds by a powerful sense of curiosity and pleasure, then as a species, we will stand a greater chance of collective success.

For a cognitive theorist, one of the main functions of literature is to stimulate our sense of empathy, to give us practice in perspective-taking, in imputing intentions to actions, and generally to impress upon us the rich complexity that is another mind. And all this we enjoy because it has suited evolution for millions of years that we be intrinsically rewarded for any actions which increase our ability to survive and thrive as a species.

As a relatively new paradigm, Cognitive Poetics is still finding its limits, and more traditional theorists have particular reason to resist its advance. Those of a Marxist, Post-structuralist or Psychoanalytical stripe resent its claims to draw upon the authority of 'science', a body of knowledge which they refuse to accept has a privileged status. Certainly, Cognitive Poetics does have its limits, and rather tends to efface the socio-political themes of literature. However, that said, I certainly feel that since the 90s, the humanities have suffered from a malaise brought on by the same tired old Marxist, Post-structuralist and Psychoanalytical readings of texts. In this intellectual climate, we need to embrace something radical and progressive in order to re-invigorate and re-validate our disciplines. Maybe it boils down to whether the approach of cognitive literary theorists appeals to your temperament, as William James would certainly have argued. In which case I can only speak for myself when I say that I cautiously embrace the discipline, for it chimes well with my own experience of communicating in speech and in writing.

In a sense then, a good conversationalist should be like a good author, as he or she would be defined by a cognitive theorist; that is not only an endlessly rich and diverse mind, but also an individual who constantly makes decisions at the level of discourse, lexis, sentence structure, intonation and timing to showcase this richness and diversity. Such qualities, when combined with the patience and attention required to display an authentic interest in the mind of one's interlocutor, can only serve to draw us in with curiosty and pleasure, for it is in our nature as a species to take an elemental delight in the the minds of others. 

But of course there is an essential difference between speech and writing, which brings me full circle to ponder once more my initial question. Who, indeed, are you? I cannot see you, I do not know you, and we will most likely never meet. So how can I be motivated to build a bridge to a mind which qua me does not exist?

Altruism and the limits of Darwinism

I am very fond of my neurologist friend for a number of reasons. For one thing, he is Hungarian, and therefore possessed of a unique and fascinating language as well as a devil-may-care attitude and certain weakness for hard liquor that I find so refreshing having lived among Germans now for 6 years. But I think the true source of my tender feelings for him stem from the very childlike attachment he has to people. Quite simply, it seems physically to pain him to be alone. Many's the time he has phoned me during those occasions when his girlfriend - also a doctor - has been on duty to beg for someone to accompany him while he undertakes such homely little projects as stew-making, pickling or preserving.

But despite all his homely qualities, my friend is most definitely a neurologist at heart, and tends to over-emphasise the biological or materialist influences upon human life during our regular philosophical discussions. Such was the case last week when we met for Jenga and mulled wine in a bar up in the old town. I had just talked over with him my reasons for wanting to leave the town and so had begun a general discussion on what the purpose of a life ought to be. Predictably, he answered as a life-scientist and spoke of life's purpose purely in terms of the imperative to pass on your genes and ensure the survival of your offspring.

Now it's not that I do not agree with him. In fact, I remember holding and propounding similar views myself when I first met my ex-wife back in 2002. Also, my thesis is written in the field of Inter-disciplinary Nineteenth Century Studies, and specifically the exchange of ideas between literature, theology and evolutionary biology in the post-Darwinian period. In short, not only do I know a thing or two about the evolutionary argument, I also find it very convincing... up to a point; for in my opinion, what makes humans unique in comparison to other species is the way in which we often disregard the so-called biological imperative to selfishly pass on our own genes and are motivated instead to sacrifice our own advantages and, at times, our life for others.

Now you could argue, as my neurologist friend did in fact, that we are not unique among species in our sometime tendency for self-sacrifice. True, individuals of many species use alarm calls which, in alerting other members of their species to the presence of danger, also make it much more likely that they themselves will become the quarry. But a moment’s reflection will surely impress upon you the chasm of difference between the mechanistic chirping of a marmot at the shadow of an eagle and the intrinsic motivation, year after year, to care for the sick and the elderly as so many unsung heroes and heroines in our communities currently do. Indeed, it is a testament to how complex and rationalised the motivations of such individuals are that they often spring from a system of values which for some even goes by the name of religion.

Of course, you could view the emphasis which many of the world’s religions place upon charity as itself the product of evolution, an extra-corporeal tool which serves to increase our ability to survive as a race as much perhaps as evolved immunity to some diseases. But it is important to understand that if we do go down this path of reasoning, we are merely creating the illusion of understanding charitable behaviour by appending the label ‘evolution’ to a set of processes so complex that we haven’t even begun to truly understand them.

This was how I argued with my dear friend, as his sleepy girlfriend yawned on his shoulder. “I’m almost finished honey.”, I reassured her with a smile, “Then you can go home.”. So my conclusion in a nutshell was and is this: that if you want to look for the identity of an individual, that essential part of themselves which can be ascribed to their own will and character rather than the selfish urges and drives of their race, that part of themselves which has risen above the eternally looping hum and chatter of their biology to contribute something which has real meaning, then look for what they have done for others. At the end of any human life our saving grace should be that underneath all that vanity and selfishness, there is enough love to matter.

Four things I have learned

Be positive and outgoing, other people are what is important in life so listen more than you speak and always be curious.

Don't try to control things too much, especially if they are running against you. Do what you can then change your focus and work on something that gives you pleasure.

Always have something you can look forward to, but remember too that the secret of a more lasting happiness is to get lost in the rhythms of a life lived rather than expected.

And when it comes to truth, what is true is only what is useful to you. So embrace difference and never let your philosophy harden into dogma.

The Storm Runner, or How I Ended up Spending the Night in a Swiss Mountain Tee-Pee

OK, so you're in the Swiss Alps, it's 7 pm and the end of another long day on the trail. You have just walked across a lonely and level plain studded with silver lakes and snow fields and are now switch-backing up a 2,900 m ridge between two valleys and two language communities. It is the best time of day, when the quality of the sunlight, so glorious all day, softens and takes on the gentler hues of rosy golds and pinks.

But you are a little apprehensive and walking fast. The saddle is still quite far above you and you need to get over and down onto the other side before dusk sets in. You are tired, but bouyed up by the beauty of the landscape and the anticipation of spending the coming night in the austerity of high altitude.

You eventually hit the saddle and new vistas open up. New mountains to find on the map, different contours and glaciers and onward valleys, and a chance to survey the land immediately below: another lonely level plain but this time peppered with sheep. It is still up here, the wind lazily footers about among the few blades of grass poking through the rocks before petering out in the triumph of silence.

You descend 200 m to the plain and scout out a place to pitch your tent, some place level, somewhat raised and sheltered. Before long you find a spot next to a small lake which, though a little exposed, is so picturesque that you cannot resist it. You pitch, eat a ravenous meal of bread, cheese and sausage washed down with schnapps from a small plastic bottle, and lie back on your mat to savour the exquisite views of the nearby snow capped mountains and the sweet aching pain of your feet.

The first thing you notice is the wind... it must have been slowly gaining in strength all the time you were eating but only now do you realise it is no longer the still, warm evening it had been on the ridge. A pang of anxiety as you recall the warning of storms down in the valley. You try to put it out of your head and enjoy the sound of the wind playing merry havoc with the fabric of your tent, try to recall similar evenings on Greek island beaches when the furious meltemi was at full pelt, whipping up waves and driving shards of sand hard against the nylon. Just make sure all lines are tight and all pegs are secure and you will be fine. You try to relax, but the wind is getting stronger, intermittently mastering the fabric so totally in the duration of a short, sharp gust that you feel perilously exposed.

You stick your head out and look around. Over on the other side of the ridge, a pack of battered clouds are gathering, mingling with the dusk to darken the sky and rob the earth of the welcome colours of the evening.

Your dilemma: to stay put and sit it out here at 2,700m with only 700 g of sil-nylon and a hiking pole separating you from the elements? Or to up sticks and descend 700 metres to the tree line and the shelter of the forest? It has already been a long day and you really can't face the prospect of another hour's walk, very probably under heavy rain and with lighting bolts to dodge. You lie back again, trying to convince yourself that this little tent can make it. But when another gust comes, shaking the tent poles so convincingly that they rattle and bend like garden canes, you know you have to get yourself out of there and down... and quick.

It usually takes you around twenty minutes to break camp. You do it in five. Soon, you are bounding across the plain through the thickening wind and now spats of rain, while all the while bemused looking sheep stare on, placidly, chewing the cud like it is a summer's day. You feel like laughing out loud, except that you don't. Harder and more persistent rain is falling, soaking your down jacket from the outside even as sweat soaks it from the inside. The rocks are slippy and twice you go over on your ankle in a way which would normally cause you stop dead and  hop around in pain. But you are as in a tunnel, so chock full of adrenaline that you can only focus on your next foot fall and your ultimate destination of the tree line. How far can it be now? Two hundred? Three hundred metres? At this pace another fifteen minutes? Half an hour?

It is at this point, soaked through and lung-burst, with lightning bolts crackling around you, that something huge and white looms up in front of your eyes, rain pelting down off of its smooth sloping sides.

It is a tee-pee.

You have no time to think and so hurdle the fence that surrounds it, throw yourself in through the front flap, and slither the last few feet into the interior on your belly.

You lie there for a moment as rain batters off the canvas then slowly raise your head from the hot, steaming, soggy mess of your folded arms.

There in the centre of the tee-pee is an ornate and ceremonial candle holder, all baroque twists of iron topped off with a glass casing containing a candle surrounded by rock crystals. Around the perimeter are about ten beds, arranged in a circle with their foot ends pointing toward the candle. All are emaculately dressed and ready, it seems, to receive their guests.

'Is this a cult dwelling?', you say out loud, unable quite to take it all in.

The thunder and lightning continue to crackle. The rain batters down on the canvas. You remember the vacant faces of the sheep up on the mountain, and now this extraordinary scene.

Suddenly relieved from the grip of adrenaline, and now with a keen sense that you have just burst into an incredible story, you laugh out loud.

I never did find out what that place was. I spread out my things on the floor as the rain pelted down harder onto the reassuringly thick canvas walls of the tee-pee and fell asleep. In the morning, I packed up at first light and got the hell out of there, down to the valley floor where I wandered into a hotel breakfast room, replete with gentile Swiss German guests, nursing a bruised ankle, but also an insane pride hidden in the folds of my 100 yard stare. My adventure, so new and strange, was too impossible to tell. It would need reflection, distance and a cool head to wrap the right words around it. So instead I just strutted to and from the buffet and grinned into my coffee, allowing the images to tumble past my mind's eye like rain.