World Nomads Pod-cast entry: Listening with Open eyes

This blog bore witness to my various musing and adventures while in South Asia in 2006. Though it has unfortunately lain untouched for the past year, the Wolrd Nomads podcast scholarship was the perfect excuse to rekindle old memories. This 3 minute travel documentary portrays Nepal as both a mystical land, and a heart wrenching location of violence and poverty. It explores some of my own most personally challenging moments while traveling, but, most importantly, exposes the story of a most inspiring woman and the whirlwind of contrasts that currently define her country.  

Listening with Open Eyes

Alternatively you can visit the online media section of my website to view a flash version of this podcast accompanied by my photographs from the region.

dear ricky (punter)

I can’t profess to being your number one fan. I can’t claim to be even one of your biggest fans. In fact the first time I saw you, the first time I ever went to a cricket match and, for that matter, the first whole cricket match I have ever seen, was in January last year.I went along with my friend and her cohort of fervent Sri Lankan fans; her mother, father, sisters, boyfriend, his friends, family friends. A big group of Sri Lankans and me sat down to watch Sri Lanka versus Australia. Sam was sure she would have me converted by evening but as much as I love her family, underneath it all I am undeniably and inescapably Aussie. At one point that little aussie side of me felt a little confused; the visitors were getting thrashed- isn’t it Aussie to back the underdog? But I remained steadfast.I think you went out for a duck that day, Ricky, but don’t worry, we all have bad days.

So I’m not really a cricket fan at all, but as fate would have it, to you Ricky, I am forever indebted. My limited cricket education continued during my temporary residence in Nepal last year. Every shop keeper wanted to know where I was from and emphatically replied “oh Australi…. the Ashes!”

But by December it was time to leave Nepal and head home for Christmas and the Australian summer. In my hand was an awful ticket taking me to half of Asia’s airports before finally due for arrival in Melbourne two days later. As long as there were no delays I it would be a bearable trip and it was a cheap ticket.

My Kathmandu to Delhi flight was delayed.

Two hours delayed.
At six thirty the pilot announced that there was no landing space so we were in queue, circling
Delhi international airport at 6000 feet.

We landed at 7.00. My instructions in had been to collect my baggage and ask at the information desk for directions to my connecting flight to Bombay. A long immigration queue stood in the way of me and my bags. At 7.15 I passed over my passport to a woman with massive glasses sliding off her long nose.
“‘Is this you?’ she asked, I nodded, ‘Are you sure?’ Incredulously I insisted that I was sure it was my passport. “You changed your hair. Very nice haircut”.

She handed back my passport.
“Thank-you” I said, and ran for the baggage carosel.

Armed with my backpack I headed to the information desk and showed them my ticket. The woman pointed me out the gate and through a door where the shuttle between the domestic and international airports leaves from. It was now 7.30. My Bombay flight leaves at 8.00.

At the doorway the old man shakes his head, ‘No ma’m, your coach left at 7.00. What I suggest it is that you are to do is to take a prepaid taxi service to the airport. You can take it from over there” pointing to the other end of the arrivals hall and wobbling his head with closed eyes to signal that he was finished speaking.

I ran over the other side and stood in line. Well I stood behind people who were there first, and soon I was standing behind people who came after me. Eventually, one of the perks (and curses)of being a foreigner, is that you’re always immediately identifyable as someone who doesn’t belong, ‘Excuse me ma’m, how may I help you’. With only US dollars and Nepali Rupee in my wallet I was sent away to find a money changer and Indian Rupee.

Surely looking like a fool by now I ran back inside and to the nearest glass window and showed my greenbacks. The man behind the glass shook his head. So did the next man, and the woman, and every other person sitting behind glass in the whole airport.

I ran back to the information desk and a youngish man in a white shirt asked how he could help me this evening.“My flight was delayed from Kathmandu so I missed the shuttle which I should have got to the domestic airport to get my flight to Bombay so I’ve been trying to get a prepaid taxi but all I have is 20 US dollars and all the money changers are closed to I can’t get rupee and that means I can’t get a taxi and I’m about to miss my flight and I don’t know what to do”.
He smiled calmly, “Don’t worrrrry ma’m we will change your money over here” and he led me over to one of the men behind glass. “It’s closed” I said meekly. “Don’t worrrrry Ma’m,” he smiled, “We will ask for a special favour.”

The man behind glass shook his head. My Calm Saviour said, “Don’t worry we will ask that one over there”. “Its closed as well” I said, but he just smiled and led the way.

It was closed.

My Calm Saviour pointed at another one but I shook my head. “They’re all closed. I’ve tried them all.” He asked the man behind the glass another question and translated the verdict for me, “The system is down, Ma’m, but don’t worry, we can use your credit card in this ATM” he said brightly. I felt sick, “My card won’t work, it’s a local banks only ATM machine.”

Now a look of anxiety was creeping across my Calm Saviour’s face. It was 7.40. He led me over to the prepaid taxi area and swung his head right infront of the window, infront of all the people in queue who had been there before him. He came back with his wallet open, “I will pay your taxi, you give him this receipt when you get there and then you must run.” I was shocked by his generosity, “Will you get this money back from your company? Can I write a letter to say you did this for me so they will give you money?” He shook his head, “It will not matter Ma’m. Just remember to rrrrun.”
I offered him the $20 but he refused, “It was so little”. In the end all I could say was thank-you and wave from my taxi window.

7.43.

My driver was a bouncy skinny man. His grin in the rear view mirror asked me for my good name and my country.
“Australllllia! The Ashes!” he bounced excitedly.

At 7.55 we arrived at Delhi Domestic Airport and as instructed I ran.

The security men x-raying saw my ticket and my face, picked up my bags and they ran too.The man at the check-in desk was a jovial man with a big belly. “You want to go to Bombay?!” I sighed that yes that was my plan. “Alllrrrrright” he said smiling.

I rested all my hope in that smile. His smile meant everything would be fine. His smile…. disappeared. The attendant beside him nudged his belly and whispered something to him. “I’m verry sorry Ma’m, you will need to go to customer service” and he pointed behind me.

The security men still with my bags, skidded over in that direction.

‘I’m sorry Ma’m” the woman said, “you will need to go to the Deputy Manager”.

Bags and all, we skidded again. “You will need to go to the Duty Manager”, the Deputy Manager said.

The Duty Manager was a round man with a comb over, sitting behind a long desk and a cloud of smoke. He looked at me over the rim of his glasses, “Yes?’. The two security men quietly put down my bags. This was the end of their line. I showed him my ticket. With his whole belly heaving as he breathed, “You have missed it. We have no more flights to Bombay tonight”.
‘But’ I said, I have to get to Bombay tonight to get my flight to and then I fly from there to KL and then to Melbourne.”
He inhaled again, “You can use the phone to contact other airlines if you like. This is a very bad ticket anyway, so many connections”. He put my ticket on the desk and turned back to his computer. “Excuse me, Sir, but if your flight from Kathmandu to Delhi hadn’t been delayed I’d be in the air right now instead of in your office so I think I need a little more than the use of your phone….. Though it was a kind offer…..”
He turned, “You were on that flight Ma’m?” He picked up my ticket again and turned back to his computer again. “Wait here.” He heaved himself up and waddled out.

While he was out, a younger thinner man sat on another chair at the other end of the desk. My knee and hands were twitching by now and I was in an obvious state of discomfort. The skinny man broke the silence, “Your good name Ma’m?” I told him. And then I wrote it on a piece of paper for him in case he needed it. He looked at it, folded the piece of paper up and put it in his pocket. “Which country are you from Ma’m”
“Australia”
“Ah!” he wobbled his head happily, “Rrrrricky Pon-ting!”.
“Yes, Ricky Ponting”
“Grrrrrreat Cap-tain Ma’m.” then added quietly, “Best in the world Ma’m.”

You must inspire a lot of people, Ricky, and that night you inspired this man. Satisfied with my caliber, he promptly made a phone call and with the click of the receiver being placed down he announced, “Ma’m, your ticket is fine”.

I flew with a different airline and arrived in Bombay in time for my connecting flight. Three airports later I arrived in Melbourne in time for Christmas and in time for the rest of the Ashes.

I don’t know the names of the other people who helped me that night, but to you I wanted to write to personally to say thank you and ask if you could give special wave next time your in Delhi, to the airport staff.

Thanks Ricky! And well done in the Ashes.

blisters, bells and Braka; our himalayan trek

Manang is a mountain top region along the Tibet border nestled atop the Himalayas. It is accessible only by foot, at least for now, until the proposed road crawls up the landscape. This planned road development formed the basis of my second radio documentary research.

The Manangi village of Braka is also the birthplace of Jack’s parents, his grandparents, and since no one has really moved in or out of the village since it was settled 600 years ago, it was the birthplace of his entire traceable ancestry. In the Nepali autumn, Erin and her husband, Jack and I decided to trek to Braka, a bit of a pilgrimage for Jack and an opportunity for Erin and I to see and understand Jack’s roots.

Jack pronounced himself our guide assuring us he knew the way, but Erin and I decided we could use the employ of a porter. Jack’s guide status certainly served him well financially, he was handed free food and drinks along the way while Erin and I paid full tourist price. When buying cigarettes at one stall he was asked if they were for him ‘or for her’ pointing at Erin, as there was a 30 rupee price difference. Jack laughed and she “she is my wife”. They got the cheaper price. He was also congratulated with handshakes and pats on the back by restaurateurs and fellow guides along the way on having ‘won’ a tourist. However, it must be said that on matters of navigation up the mountains along the winding village paths, Jack frequently called on the experience of his first mate, our porter.

The mornings inevitably began with me waking up at first light at about 6.00 (quite remarkable- this has never happened before or since for that matter) and using a number of techniques to wake my fellow companions usually by jumping on their bed, pulling their blankets off or singing a suitable good morning song or a mixture of the above. One morning, they woke to a pair of legs dressed in thermals or “monkey pants” swinging on my bed-cum-stage to my own rendition of Fame. It promised to be a very special day.

After throwing on my clothes as quickly and as far underneath the blanket as possible exposing as little of my body as I could to the bitterness of the morning, I would order a coffee for Erin and a tea for me, and remind the guesthouse owners that our “guide” would probably really appreciate a coffee as well. Given my early rising I watched the full morning process along the trekking route to Manang unfold every morning. Couples, usually from European Alp or Fjord regions would begin rustling wake up noises at about 6. By 6.15 they were in the dining area dressed in their high-tech by gorgeously styled gear, propping their packs up near the doorway and laying their trekking sticks (which look suspiciously like skiing stokes to me) over the top. Soon the hall is filled with French, German, Italian and Scandinavian accents talking about the day ahead and the days past over steaming bowls of porridge, preordered the evening before to save time. By 6.30 all the up and at ‘em trekkers have left and the hall quietens as the bleary eyed sleeper iners idle in to fill the void left by the enthusiasts. They leave by 7.30. Our porter walks in, points over the to the rooms and with a massive grin rolls his eyes. The family who owns the guest house go about their day, with the morning rush over there is a calm in the house. At about 8 Erin greets me with ‘Hey Honey’ and sits down to drink her now cold coffee. I don’t think there was a day that we started walking before 9. We walked at an easy pace with either Jack or I in the lead, followed by Erin and then our porter. Sometimes I would walk beside Erin or Jack or Jack and Erin would walk together, and apart from my sporadic humming and singing, we rarely felt the need to fill the silence. It was almost as if, as the sheer rock faces shot up around to our left and right, the blue crystal river bustled below and the path tumbled over the undulating hills and peaks in front of us, our very presence was loud enough. I still remember waking up on the second morning and seeing a white Himalayan peak over the green valley tops and the rush of excitement it sent through my cold, shivering bones. It served as my motivation to put one foot in front of the other up the notorious Barandunda hill with sweat gathering on my brow and my lungs scraping for air; as I walked, I walked towards those white peaks. On the fourth day I turned around to look at where I’d come. If the white peaks in front of me were the carrots in front of my nose, the dignity and stillness of the massive backdrop of jaggered white covered cliffs forming a panorama behind me sent thrills through every exhausted muscle in my body. Perfect white mountains to my left, right, behind me and infront of me.

The tracks we followed were the well worn paths trodden by the flip-flop clad or, more often, barefoot locals walking between the villages. As it stands now, anything that cannot be grown in the region must be carried up by porters, and the waste carried down. Traditionally this would have been very little but with the influx of tourists, bottled water, coke, packaged foods and even gas bottles were among the wares carried on the heads of these men. The other method of goods transportation was on the back of a donkey. Bells tied around their necks with varying chimes filled the air with a soft melodic orchestra of sounds supported by the rushing of the river, punctuated with the calls from the birds.

 We would arrive exhausted at our sleeping birth by about 3.00, our walk broken up by tea breaks, an extended lunch break, and frequent smoke breaks. We ate dinner at about 6.00, played cards and retired for the night at 8.00, ready to wake up and repeat the process the next day.

The fourth day was the only day on the trek that I cried. I fancied a break at the hill top village but out porter bade us press on. His body language had changed, he looked stiff and uncomfortable. Obediently I walked on ahead. Though I’d been warned several nights before, was still taken aback by the smarminess and cruel confidence with which I was met when three men sitting behind a makeshift desk on the dirt path introduced themselves as Maoist tax collectors. I felt sick and took a step back. I couldn’t look at them. Erin went ahead and showed them her marriage certificate and together with Jack convinced the Maoists that they should be exempt from the tax. She came over, put her arm around me and said, ‘Honey, they want 1000 rupee’. Prior to this I was adamant I would not pay, I would not support a regime that lied, that killed that tortured, that was ruining the lives of so many people in this country. With the hottest, angriest tears I have ever felt spilling from my eyes I covered my face from the men. Then, trying not think about what my hands were doing I opened my bag and pulled out the money. I gave it to Erin, ‘I can’t give it to them’. I hated them and I wanted to tell them so. I wanted to scream at them, I wanted to ask them how many people they were going to kill with my money. But their confidence was so dark and sure that it could only have been backed up by a gun, which I knew would be resting by their feet. I felt sick. Every trekker who had passed through that day had paid the equivalent of $15USD. Was our collective desire to see the Mountains really more important than the price the Nepali people would pay? The men saw me crying and asked ‘why is she crying? If you don’t have enough money because you are a volunteer just tell us’. I answered, ‘I have enough money. Can I go now?’ Later Erin and Jack tried to consol me saying my own money really was insignificant and working for change through Sancharika was really much more meaningful, and that the Nepalese Army is just as bad (which is true) and since we had paid a government tax before we came, it was really the same thing. Needless to say this last point didn’t make me feel much better.

On the sixth day we arrived at Braka. Though it was the homeland of Jack’s ancestry, his closest remaining relatives in the village were his brother-in-law’s brother, Karma Chering, and his wife, and his cousin’s aunty and uncle.

Jack had ask which houses were his parents childhood homes. Like many other houses in the village, his mother’s empty house was falling down, the roof fallen through and the interior was fast being reclaimed by nature. His father’s had not fared much better.

Braka clings to a hill with its houses rising tightly above eachother, ascending up the slope. It’s crowned at the top by a red and white Buddhist Gompa or Monastary, proudly one of the oldest in the Manang region. I loved Braka but as I scrambled around and took photos in the morning sun, it conjured up images in my head of a lonely, frail, old woman with greying hair, stubbornly refusing to leave her home in the scrub, but instead resolved to live out the remainder of her life in the place she has always lived. There are sparks of life in Braka’s eyes but her body is dying.

But in nearby Manang tourism is booming with entrepreneurs offering CD burning services and batteries for photo hungry trekkers taking a mid-trek break. Many young Manangis are returning as visitors, like Jack, to see where their parents were born and grew up. They often talk about perhaps retiring in Manang or Braka, ‘if they build the road and life is not so hard here’. Should the road proposal materialise, the one thing which is certain is that Braka, Manang and the other villages which make up this Himalayan region will be changed forever.

On the fourteenth day we saw the Himalayas from a different view- from mid-air. Waiting at the landing strip at 7.30am I was unsure of exactly what I was hoping for. We’d had snow overnight and unlike most mornings which woke to pure blue skies, this morning clouds had gathered above the mountain tops. The deal was that if the sky wasn’t clear the plane could not fly but this morning was a line call. If the plane didn’t come we would have to walk back down. If it did come, I felt sure that my life could very well end that day.

The plane came through the mountain pass, though I was not reassured at the sight of the antique flying machine which pulled up in front of us. We loaded our bags ands the sacks of Himalayan potatoes we had been asked to deliver to relatives in Kathmandu and climbed on board. Hands down the most treacherous part of our trip, the flight was magic. We glided through narrow passes with sheer snow covered rock faces filling the view of the window out both sides, which opened out to the undulations of a frozen ocean of white peaks and swirling mist. The sun stroked its meek rays out over the horizon as it rose over the ocean. The plane did not elevate through the whole flight and at times seemed to almost skim over the tops of mountains. As the snow dissipated and dissolved into tree and plot covered hills we finally descended onto the airstrip in the township of Pokhara.

This is a massive post but there are still so many things I have neglected to mention when recalling this experience. While I once vowed never to trek again after spending a miserable three days waterlogged and scared for my life in monsoon Vietnam, the trek to Manang was everything you could hope for in a perfect memory; it has awe, it has laughs, it has challenges, it has the pinching factor, and best of all, it was shared and will never fade from my memory.