A Good Story

This piece in the NYT will bring a smile to India veterans, I wager. "Adventures in a tuk-tuk" they might have titled it. The author's description of a tuk-tuk is the best I've read. I also immediately determined that this guy & his traveling companions were crazy, but I'll leave the rest for  you to read. Enjoy

Earthquake!

Okay, it should have been just "earthquake" with no exclamation point. 

This morning, lying in bed around dawn, only half-awake, I heard a rumbling sound, like a heavy truck passing by. We can have many strange sounds in the night, like loud horns, drummers, and wild animals, but we don't have early Sunday morning trucks outside our door. So early in the ten-second experience, I thought it was an earthquake, and sure enough, the rumble was followed by some shaking and then silence. (I think that it even quieted the birds for a brief period.) C later reported that she heard the heavy wooden chair scrape against our tile floor. As it was, I didn't know C was awake, and while I was prepared to deal with an earthquake, I was not prepared to awaken her before Nature undertook the task for me. 

This is the second tremor that we've experienced. Both occasions were easily detected. Interesting but not alarming. Seeing all of the construction going on around us--and it's quite a lot--I know that the poured concrete buildings have enough rebar to hold up almost anything. (Steel girder construction here is very rare.) In addition, since almost all scaffolding consists of bamboo poles, I doubt that even temporary scaffolding would ever be seriously threatened. So far (knock on wood), the tremors are just a novelty. To have experienced a couple of tremors within less than one-half a year as opposed to the once-in-a-generation quakes that one experiences in Iowa adds some spice to our experience.

BTW, the weather right now compares to that in Iowa in May. We're sleeping with the windows open (wood and noxious smokes notwithstanding), and the daytime high will hit about 80 F. Sweet!

The Snow Leopard by Peter Matthiessen

In 1972 the naturalist writer and novelist Peter Matthiessen joined an expedition to go deep into the Nepalese Himalayas with biologist George Schaller to study the bharal, an ancestor of both sheep and goats, and to perhaps catch a glimpse of the elusive snow leopard. Matthiessen’s book is in essence a diary of the arduous trek into the deep mountain wilderness beginning in late September and ending near the beginning of December. This is not an Into Thin Air account of a trek gone bad. Matthiessen and his group all survive, although conditions prove arduous, and the book contains no cliffhangers. Instead, it’s a description of the land, plants, animals, people, and culture of the region. If this was not enough—and it’s quite a lot—it’s also a reflection by Matthiessen on himself and his life. He undertakes this journey less than a year after the death of his wife from cancer, and he recounts their relationship in life and death. 

Matthiessen’s writing in The Snow Leopard (1978, 294 p.) is spare, concise, and yet detailed. Through the journey we learn a great deal about Matthiessen’s present and past. Matthiessen spares neither his environment nor himself as he reports about both about his surroundings and his own thoughts. Mathiessen is a student and practitioner of Zen Buddhism and his prose style reflects this clear, clean aesthetic. This serves him and his readers well because he’s also going deep into the culture of Tibetan Buddhism, a culture steeped in detailed mythology and symbolism that contrasts markedly with the sparse Zen aesthetic. Despite this contrast, Matthiessen’s sympathy for Tibetan Buddhism and the surrounding culture remains palpable. 

By the end of the journey and the book, the fact that Matthiessen observed only signs of the snow leopard’s presence and never any direct observation does not concern us (or him). We understand that this outcome is fitting. Matthiessen’s own journey and ours remain incomplete. We struggle with emotions, with failures, and with coming to grips with the now. We can think of Matthiessen’s book as a meditation: detailed, observant, honest—one that combines mindfulness and insight. Like the mountains that he describes, one leaves the book with a sense of awe at what Mathiessen has accomplished using only the humble tool of prose. Matthiessen won the National Book Award for Cotemporary Thought for this masterpiece in 1979 and for Nonfiction on 1980 with the publication of the paperback edition, and reading it now almost a quarter of a century later, it still merits it accolades. 

Cross-blogged in Taking Readings. 

Nepal and the Himalayas

What is stirring about this peak, in snow time, is its powerful shape, which even today, with no clouds passing, makes it appear to be forging through the blue. “The power of such a mountain is so great and yet so subtle that, without compulsion, people are drawn to it from near and far, as if by the force of some invisible magnet; and they will undergo untold hardships and privations in their inexplicable urge to approach and to worship the centre of this sacred power. . . . This worshipful or religious attitude is not impressed by scientific facts, like figures of altitude, which are foremost in the mind of modern man. Nor is it motivated by the urge to ‘conquer’ the mountain. . . .”

          Peter Matthiessen, The Snow Leopard (173-174), quoting Lama Angarika Govinda, The Way of the WhiteClouds

The secret of mountains is that the mountains simply exist, as I do myself: the mountains exist simply, which I do not. The mountains have no “meaning”, they are meaning; the mountains are. The sun is round. I ring with life, and the mountains ring, and when I can hear it, there is a ringing that we share. I understand all this, not in my mind but in my heart, knowing how meaningless it is to try to capture what cannot be expressed, knowing that mere words will remain when I read it all again, another day. 

          Peter Matthiessen, The Snow Leopard (195-196)

Our arrival in Nagarkot near twilight found us caught in a cold wind viewing evening clouds on the far horizon. Nothing too impressive. Because of a lack of light and limited electricity, along with any external source of heat except a pair of hot water bottles, we turned in after exhausting our computer batteries. Dark and cold and a bit boring were the operative terms our first night at the Peaceful Cottage in Nagarkot, Nepal. 

When we awoke in the morning and poked our heads out of the warm covers, C pulled back the curtains covering the long window above our headboard. We could tell that the sun was shining through the dew-covered pain. C wiped away the moisture and allowed us to behold the scene outside. On the far horizon, we saw a jagged line of gray-blue peaks, streaked with white, reaching into the stark blue sky. The view amazed us. Our awe of this limited scenery helped us face the cold outside our bed, and we went up for breakfast on the floor above us, where we beheld a panoramic view of the horizon. From our peak, well within the tree line, we looked below at a long, deep valley between high, green mountains that continued for a great distance before giving way to an area of density that concealed the base of the distant peaks. This opaque area created a no-man’s land of sorts that separated this mundane, green world from that of the peaks that defined the high horizon. As we looked, we could hear the staff naming the great peaks that looked so near. Somewhere, in the great distance (thereby concealing its towering majesty) lies Everest. I could not single it out, but no matter, those mountains within the foreground were sufficient to instill the awe that grabbed me. 

By a whim of good fortune I'd spied a copy of Peter Matthiessen’s The Snow Leopard during one of my early forays into an Indian bookshop. Like finding a discount candy shop, I indulged in it and a number of other titles. Matthiessen’s book had been on my mind for years, perhaps I’d even started it once. I purchased it thinking no more than this is another book that I should read—along with all of the others. However, when our trip to Nepal began to approach I hunted it down (it had been surreptitiously borrowed), and I began reading. As I hope that you can tell from the opening quotes, it served as a perfect meditation to consider what we saw out there. 

Perhaps because I was born and raised in a valley that was surrounded with nothing greater than rolling hills, mountains hold me in awe. In part, their intrigue arises from the physical stamina they elicit from us if we want to behold them and know them up close. On this day in Nepal, we followed our guide to an even greater height over a 90-minute hike, where the vistas offered us the imposing Himalayan peaks to the north, with their fractal horizon touching the sky, and to the south, mountains covered with lush, thick forests breathing life that could not exist at those exalted altitudes. Simply reaching that limited peak allowed me to celebrate that my ticker had passed another test and allowed me to rejoice a small victory it by taking in the wonderful vistas. 

But beyond the physical, mountains cast a spell as a representative of a higher power, at once immensely physical and immediate, while also suggestive of something beyond our minds’ easy grasp. Nature in her grandeur reveals herself to allow us to better perceive ourselves. From the basic appreciation of our meager statures, fleeting lives, and limited powers, to the deepest insights into existence, mountains elicit responses from us. Mountains can do that for me, and Matthiessen’s book provided an excellent backdrop with which to view these magnificent creations. 

Cold, human frailty, and the pull of other adventures took us away from our high perch on Nagarkot, but this evening in Katmandu the clouds lifted for a short period before sunset to reveal the magnificent display of the peaks once again. I would rue leaving so early if I was a stronger person, and if we were not bound for the Thar Desert. For who knows what lurks in the desert? 

N.B. For another commentary and photos, go to C's blog & Flickr site. 

Where Am I?

When I awoke this morning, I didn't think it too early, but the light filtering in through the curtains was a gray, dull color that signaled that the sun had not yet exerted its control over the morning sky. Upon exiting my bed and pulling back the first curtain, I learned that neither of my perceptions, as to the time and the color of the morning sky, was wrong. In fact, the sky was gray with clouds, and I could see the trees swaying in a slight wind. After completing rituals and having sat down to do some writing, I heard the gentle rumble of thunder and a gradually an increasing volume of white noise that signaled a gentle rainfall. As I looked into the yard below me, with its green grass, blooming flowers, the trees full of leaves, I could have thought that I was in Iowa--about two months hence. Only the yellow tint to the leaves of the trees counters the suggestion of an Iowa day in April. Had I concentrated my gaze on the trees rather than the lawn and surrounding flowers, I would have thought it October in Iowa. The rain continued and the thunder rumbled quietly in the background. I opened the window the enjoy some fresh air, but I didn't leave it open for long, as the wind was cool, and I know that once heat is lost inside our apartment, it isn't easily recaptured. 


This is the second day of overnight (spilling into early morning) rain that we've had the last two days here. Before this, the weather had been sunny and mild, perfect for our Seattle visitors (and me). I've asked my local friends if this is normal, and while they say it’s unusual, no one elucidated. By chance, however, in reading a chapter on a Rajasthani epic poem performer in William Dalrymple's Nine Lives: In Search of the Sacred in Modern India, I came across this description of the setting of Dalyrmple's conversation with the epic performer: 

Now it was midmorning and we sat looking out at a very rare but highly auspicious event in Pabusar: clouds massing for the winter rains. Rarer still, a few drops were actually falling on the ground.  


"We call this rain the mowat," said Mohanji, smiling brightly. "Even a few drops are wonderful for the wheat and grain. One or two showers will give enough forage and fodder for the sheep and the goats until the monsoon. Four or five showers and even the cows will be happy."

Right now the cows should be happy, and I'm feeling right at home.

The Abba Interview

Recently, on the eve of her departure from India, I had an opportunity to sit down with Abba to discuss her experiences and observations about India. Looking fit and relaxed as I met her in her spacious Jaipur apartment, with suitcases readied for her imminent departure, Abba was forthcoming about her what she’d experienced in her time here. 

As an experienced traveler, she reported that she immediately took note of the Delhi’s Indira Gandhi airport, which made a favorable impression on her with its “cool buildings”. Upon existing and beginning her travels, she found that the scenes reminded her of South Africa. The level of development that she saw, however, was greater than West Africa, where she resided for over two years. While noting that India lies north of the equator, she found it “typical of the global south with its food stands, open air vendors, and hotels”. Some unpaved or ill-kept roads also confirmed her sense of the global south. She was “impressed by the train” that she took from Delhi to Jaipur, comparing it to the train in Cameroon that was incredibly unreliable. 

Asked to comment for those who have not experienced India first hand, she noted how much there is to see here and how much more she could see if she had the time. She remarked on the contrast between the southwestern state of Kerala, which provided a tropical setting, and the more arid climate of Jaipur. She regretted that she had not fully experienced the Indian megacities of Mumbai (although she made a very brief sojourn out of the airport there to explore) and Delhi, which has served (and will serve) only as an entry and exit point. Of Jaipur, she reported that she would not want to live here, “it’s pretty built up”, she observed. “Walking the old city, which is quite touristy, isn’t something that I enjoyed that much”. In general, she found Jaipur “too big and hard to get around”. In contrast, “I enjoyed the hiking and touring in the rural areas, and I would have liked to have done more of that.” She noted that she, along with her entourage, hiked in a rural area outside of the south-central Rajasthan city of Udaipur. “It reminded me a lot of the ‘Roon.” (The ‘Roon' is her slang for the West Central African nation of Cameroon.) Another aspect of India that she noted was the number events and festivals throughout the land. Asked to list a favorite, she did not hesitate: “The JLF [Jaipur Literature Festival] was awesome. It was like Christmas and SSR all in one.” (By “SSR”, Abba refers to her Lincoln Elementary School practice of “sustained silent reading”, also known by the participants as “sit down, shut-up and read”.) Abba greatly enjoyed introductions to new authors and the “great, engaging interviews” that she heard. 

I asked her about how she might advise someone coming to India about how to prepare and what to anticipate. Abba noted the “lack of personal space” as a major difference that one could expect coming from the U.S or from Cameroon. In addition, she noted, “India could overwhelm someone who has not traveled before. There’s a lot of stimulus, and you could go crazy if you can’t filter out some of that stimulus.” As example, she remarked on the traffic in India. In sum, “it’s a bold move if you come here first in your travels!”

As to dislikes or disappointments, in addition to less rural touring that she would have liked, or the flip side, less time to explore the great cities, Abba noted her regret that she could not communicate in the local language, as she did in Cameroon. “I miss a lot being unable to speak Hindi, and I fear that creates a more superficial experience.” (This interviewer remained mute about that shortcoming.) Abba noted that she did not like polo, finding it “boring”. Finally, echoing sentiments held by her mother, the Iowa Guru, she noted, “I don’t like the cold weather.” (The reader should note that the temperature here did not get down below freezing, only into the 30’s (F), but with unheated rooms, Abba and her entourage would find it hard to warm up the extremities.)

On the positive side, Abba gathered a number of mementos from her time here, most notably the wood block cloth prints that she created, as well as some items that she purchased retail. As she noted, “India is great for fabric, and I’m really into it”. In addition, she noted that she’ll be returning to the States with some new bangles and a number of new books. 

To end our conversation, I asked Abba to reflect on a professional level about the quality of social services and public infrastructure that she observed here in India. “I’d give Cameroon a ‘D’ or an ‘E’; East Africa a ‘C’, and India a ‘B’” she reported. “I saw some great organizations, like Disha [an institution for disabled children where she volunteered], but I feel that I just skimmed the surface”. She went on to qualify her grade by remarking that she “still had a lot to learn” in order the get a complete picture of India. She noted that within Jaipur she saw a lot of building going on, including an elevated mass transit system. 

By this point, Abba was looking tired, and I knew that she needed to complete her packing for her journey to Nepal and then back to the states. I thanked her for the generous donation of her time to this interview. 

Jaipur has seen its share of rich and famous through the years, maharajas, royalty like Prince Charles and Princess Di, the Clintons, stars from Bollywood and Hollywood, as well the incomparable Oprah. Now it can add Abba to its list.