Hola amigos,
It has been a busy time. Writing has been near impossible. It still feels so. I am not starting this well. It feels a bit forced and the words cramp in my wrists. Alas. Let me put some places on the page.
We are now in the northern coastal town of San Sebastian, which features quite favorably in Ernst Hemingway´s Fiesta: the sun also rises. It is a very beautiful place, full of old architectural and artistic artefacts, laced with a thirsty drinking culture that flickers one eye around noon and does not dip its beak into the crooked wing until sometime after dawn. It is the sort of romantic and giddy place, heaving with hedonistic consummerism and decorated with top end class, that makes a backpacker feel filthy. There is no way i could stay in a place like this (Spain in general) were it not for the incredible generosity of my brother. And so an homage is due and i consider it paid.
Before we came to this crispy slice of Spanish jamon, we were in the not so sexy city of Madrid - home to the biggeest art gallery in the world and some very typical youth hostels. A very good friend observed recently the importance of trying a few different types of travel, so as we can know what we like and what we don´t: i do not like youth hostels. Not in Europe, and not in Australia either. The gel streaked collar up skiny jeans northern hemisphere kids with their have hair dryer will travel attitude bring with them a rather tedious demand for bad music and bad nightlife. It is no wonder the locals seem a bit aloof around us english speakers. I have not met many people in Spain, which is a little frustrating sometimes. Though it is good to get to know one´s brother again. And what did you like about Madrid benjamin??? We did have a pretty incredible day going to the Sophia Rapheal and the Prado museums - home to some of the most jaw dropping rumble in your guts neck cracking art in the world. Picasso blew me away while Goya blew me apart. Dali is also very cool and very busy. His peers provided some interesting work tambien. And then we had a unique cultural experience. Something that cannot be done in Melbourne. We went to see a bullfight.
And i was on the edge of my seat from the moment that terrific animal stormed out of the gate. The magnificent size and power of the creature, the flow and curve of its thunderous form. And the matador. There is a physical language, a poetic theatricality inherent to the dance of the bullfight. I was horrified, compelled, twisted up inside and exhausted by the spectacle. As per my standards, i was barracking for the bull. The tragedy of watching the slow wearing down and eventual execution of such a beautiful animal made me tremble. It has been an effort to not judge the event, or to delve too deeply into snarling reproach of the human festish for violence and barbarism. I still don´t know how to talk about the bullfight - when i was reading Fiesta the following day, Hemmingway writes about a matador and a series of bullfights: the image of the bull collapsing to its knees, its tongue protruding and blood streaked hide glistening in the sun, made it impossible to read. I stopped, closed my eyes, and shook.
The trip to San Sebastian was a beautiful demonstration of the chaos of decision making. We checked out and walked to a car rental agency. Alex had a bad feeling, so we jumped on the metro and headed to the bus station. There were no buses for several hours to Santander (we were going to go trekking in the north west of the country) so i said we should go to San Sebastian. At that we both smiled and the dread went away and i bought the tickets while Alex got the lunch. The arrival here was a bit anxious as the bok says you should make advance reservations. We had not and were unsure if we would get a room on a Friday night at the beginning of the summer season. The third place turned out to be an excellent accident. We are both happy, but having difficulty settling after travelling so quickly for the past two weeks. Who´d believe we were in Morocco last Saturday? Sipping tea in Kerouac´s old hotel... now we walk on the shores of Fiesta. A literary adventure of sorts, i spose.
I shant dare to discuss what happens next. I don´t bloody well want too. The thought of moving is too seductive and i might just dash again... which is a stupid thing to do. Movement gets addictive, making a sit down unbearable. Lets just exhale a minute... and inhale.
No buses today.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Monday, May 26, 2008
a quick laughing
This is just a quick message to go public on my re-entry to Europe. After about a week in Morocco (which i thought was beautiful and my brother thought was hideous) we are back in Spain - Granada. I would like to write more now but the keyboard i am sitting before is useless. As i bang away (most keys require repeated flogs) every other terminal is being used. So i will try again tomorrow or the next day. But if you like to listen to strange field recordings, i have some new ones up on http://www.soundtransit.nl/ The one from Essaouira is particularly mesmerising.
Peace out.
Peace out.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
a necessary down time
This is the worst part of travelling: the waiting.
After returning from the mountains for the second time, it seemed like a good idea to take it easy in Pokhara for a few days. After forking out for two Annapurna permits (at about $35 each), a tandem paragliding flight (!!!) and the relative high cost of living in Nepal (compared to most places in India), i had well and truly exhausted my budget. Its not like i've been particularly strict with my expenditure, but with my entry to Europe looming, it made sense to just keep quiet, read a book or two and let my aching muscles recover. But rarely has anything been that straightforward - it is never the ideal, but the unaccounted for that dominates the moment of execution.
My digestive system was playing up again so i went to see a real (expensive) doctor. I was aptly diagnosed with dysentary - a charming bacterial experience i probably signed up for somewhere in north India. So quiet days and boring food were the doctor's order - accompanied by a bag of assorted pharmaceuticals. No alcohol - which is fine - but annoying when you're bored.
And i am bored. As unbelievable as it may seem. Indeed, it was a relief to be leaving Pokhara after having very little to do for four days. At least when you're on a bus you're going somewhere. I'd found myself watching movies and trashy cop dramas on television - most uncharacteristic behaviour. This culminated with and probably exacerbated a period of despair - most likely an after effect of trekking in extreme and demanding landscapes. I had descended from the mountains to discover a self performing the lethargic gestures of disorientation and anxious recoil common to one who has lost his way. In the life of dreams and the life of waking, alienation has been the tune. The steps i know too well. But before... before i was on a path that assaulted the mind with the densely woven visions of a kaleidoscopic hurricane. The thickness of forests. The scattering of stones. The pulse thudding in my ears. Onwards we stormed - Craig and i. Each morning we entertained delusions of a slower day - "we should take our time - enjoy each delightful cascade, each breath whispering between the bamboo." But once the feet began to move, the rising pace consumed us with its irresistible ecstasy. More than once we broke into a canter - i no longer saw the path, but felt each collision of foot on stone, over branch, every suspended moment - whirling with the joy of movement.
And when we arrived at our destination, the reward was in the cummulative exhaustion of four days climbing splashed across an incredible ampitheatre. The intoxication of achievement mingled with the deprivation of oxygen. The snow laden might of those terrible sentinels seemed unreal. We were such tiny animals in that most sublime of other worlds.
To make the trek back down was obvious and a natural progression. We stayed a night at base camp so as to witness the dawn a second time (we made the final ascent at 5am the previous morning) - and luck would have a blizzard coat the realm in a thick layer of delicious powdery white. I had never seen such a snowscape before. The descent was optimistic - the magic of such extraordinary places lies also in their talent for infusing the imagined outside. And so we wandered down. Slowly at first, then more quickly on the second (and final) day. Exhausted and aching, we arrived in Birethanti - the final village before exiting the Annapurna conservation region. We departed the following morning in much the same fashion as our arrival - perched upon the roof of a local bus.
Now despite the sense of wonder, i was feeling pretty rough the past few days of the trek. My guts had started playing up and i was being assaulted with intense head and body aches. On the final night i had a fever and was tormented with lucid dreamings. It was a relief when the doctor said "dysentary". Naming the beast made it manageable. And now that that is managed - at least tackled and restrained - there is only the sense of longing, of being lost. When the bus was heaving and wretching its awkward way from Pokhara a stir rose within - as each passenger became aware that the clarity of the morning had permitted the first view of the Himalayan mountains from the Pokhara valley - a rare occasion at this time of year.
For me, it was as if a long lost friend had unexpectedly shown up to say a final emotional farewell. After sitting in my room with a dark expression for some days - i shook with sadness at the sight of those mountains - Macchapucchare striking against the sky like a monolithic idol. I knew then that my adventure in the mountains was over. It is, i suppose, in these moments that we feel the ephemerality of all things; that we might glimpse the tragedy of time's unsympathetic advance.
And now i am in Kathmandu and it is 5.20pm and tomorrow i shall fly to Delhi and then wait for 15 hours before my flight to Portugal. And this is the worst bit - the waiting. Not knowing what new challenges await - left alone to finger the debris of my recent memories. But perhaps there is something necessary in this - a necessary down time. And if i had to choose between a life of logical progression from one meagre contentment to another, or to take the intoxicating climbs with the horrendous falls - i know which burning altar i should have no choice but to fling my wretched form upon in a moment of total embrace.
Still.
I hate the waiting.
After returning from the mountains for the second time, it seemed like a good idea to take it easy in Pokhara for a few days. After forking out for two Annapurna permits (at about $35 each), a tandem paragliding flight (!!!) and the relative high cost of living in Nepal (compared to most places in India), i had well and truly exhausted my budget. Its not like i've been particularly strict with my expenditure, but with my entry to Europe looming, it made sense to just keep quiet, read a book or two and let my aching muscles recover. But rarely has anything been that straightforward - it is never the ideal, but the unaccounted for that dominates the moment of execution.
My digestive system was playing up again so i went to see a real (expensive) doctor. I was aptly diagnosed with dysentary - a charming bacterial experience i probably signed up for somewhere in north India. So quiet days and boring food were the doctor's order - accompanied by a bag of assorted pharmaceuticals. No alcohol - which is fine - but annoying when you're bored.
And i am bored. As unbelievable as it may seem. Indeed, it was a relief to be leaving Pokhara after having very little to do for four days. At least when you're on a bus you're going somewhere. I'd found myself watching movies and trashy cop dramas on television - most uncharacteristic behaviour. This culminated with and probably exacerbated a period of despair - most likely an after effect of trekking in extreme and demanding landscapes. I had descended from the mountains to discover a self performing the lethargic gestures of disorientation and anxious recoil common to one who has lost his way. In the life of dreams and the life of waking, alienation has been the tune. The steps i know too well. But before... before i was on a path that assaulted the mind with the densely woven visions of a kaleidoscopic hurricane. The thickness of forests. The scattering of stones. The pulse thudding in my ears. Onwards we stormed - Craig and i. Each morning we entertained delusions of a slower day - "we should take our time - enjoy each delightful cascade, each breath whispering between the bamboo." But once the feet began to move, the rising pace consumed us with its irresistible ecstasy. More than once we broke into a canter - i no longer saw the path, but felt each collision of foot on stone, over branch, every suspended moment - whirling with the joy of movement.
And when we arrived at our destination, the reward was in the cummulative exhaustion of four days climbing splashed across an incredible ampitheatre. The intoxication of achievement mingled with the deprivation of oxygen. The snow laden might of those terrible sentinels seemed unreal. We were such tiny animals in that most sublime of other worlds.
To make the trek back down was obvious and a natural progression. We stayed a night at base camp so as to witness the dawn a second time (we made the final ascent at 5am the previous morning) - and luck would have a blizzard coat the realm in a thick layer of delicious powdery white. I had never seen such a snowscape before. The descent was optimistic - the magic of such extraordinary places lies also in their talent for infusing the imagined outside. And so we wandered down. Slowly at first, then more quickly on the second (and final) day. Exhausted and aching, we arrived in Birethanti - the final village before exiting the Annapurna conservation region. We departed the following morning in much the same fashion as our arrival - perched upon the roof of a local bus.
Now despite the sense of wonder, i was feeling pretty rough the past few days of the trek. My guts had started playing up and i was being assaulted with intense head and body aches. On the final night i had a fever and was tormented with lucid dreamings. It was a relief when the doctor said "dysentary". Naming the beast made it manageable. And now that that is managed - at least tackled and restrained - there is only the sense of longing, of being lost. When the bus was heaving and wretching its awkward way from Pokhara a stir rose within - as each passenger became aware that the clarity of the morning had permitted the first view of the Himalayan mountains from the Pokhara valley - a rare occasion at this time of year.
For me, it was as if a long lost friend had unexpectedly shown up to say a final emotional farewell. After sitting in my room with a dark expression for some days - i shook with sadness at the sight of those mountains - Macchapucchare striking against the sky like a monolithic idol. I knew then that my adventure in the mountains was over. It is, i suppose, in these moments that we feel the ephemerality of all things; that we might glimpse the tragedy of time's unsympathetic advance.
And now i am in Kathmandu and it is 5.20pm and tomorrow i shall fly to Delhi and then wait for 15 hours before my flight to Portugal. And this is the worst bit - the waiting. Not knowing what new challenges await - left alone to finger the debris of my recent memories. But perhaps there is something necessary in this - a necessary down time. And if i had to choose between a life of logical progression from one meagre contentment to another, or to take the intoxicating climbs with the horrendous falls - i know which burning altar i should have no choice but to fling my wretched form upon in a moment of total embrace.
Still.
I hate the waiting.
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