You are currently browsing the monthly archive for December 2010.
I wrote a new year’s post and realized it might spoil your good mood (I’ll still post it later). For now, here’s a great piece by Rohan capturing 2010:
Scams of epic proportions in India,
Silence and then much noise on matters Radia.
Apple ne humko iPad diya.
And that Kalmadi fellow, he made lakhs ya.
Arundathi put the sexy into secede,
We saw Ayodhya play it safe and proceed,
Then Obama graced us with his presence,
As Nithyananda seduced people with incense
And the Pope fought issues with nonsense.
We were left wondering,
As we confused causation with correlation,
Do we call the rich man ‘king’?
Or is the richest man called Raja, by conflation.
Oh yeah, and we also had serious inflation.
Continue reading here.
Previous part here.
I reached the airport well before my flight. I finally had time to reflect on the entire trip. I couldn’t have asked for a better experience when I left my apartment. I didn’t even know what would constitute a better experience. I saw few places, met a few people and had some wonderful moments that I would have otherwise never had — just like any other trip in the past, just like any other trip in the future is going to be. Experiences are, I believe, the universe reacting to how one projects oneself. The experiences I call wonderful are perhaps the ones I sought and grabbed. (In the free will vs. destiny debate, I believe in free will upto the extent where I have an influence; destiny doesn’t exist anyway.)
I checked my email at the airport. The only new messages were from Marco, Guiseppe, an acquaintance I met in Peru and a missed call from Mario. It was amusing.
A few minutes before boarding, I returned all the pesos I had in exchange for far fewer US dollars. It seemed like a symbolic gesture that I was returning back to routine, but that wasn’t true. I try to never return ‘back to normal routine’ as that would demean all the moments and people I came across. There are changes, sometimes only minor, after every travel. All that matters to me is that something is changing. And change is usually progress.
When I boarded my flight, the only event taking place was me moving to just another location figuring out the continuous process called life. When I connect the dots looking back, months or years from now, this trip will be one of the dots.
******
Even before I reached my apartment, I came to know that a certain A had fought with a certain B, a certain C had stopped talking with a certain D and a certain E was still complaining about the same things as when I left. I am not surrounded by dysfunctional relationships. Hardly, in fact — but the contrast between where I am and the trivialities of everyday relationships is highest when I return after traveling.
Welcome back, society said.
****
So that was Mexico, and that was 2010. Skiing and a visit to India still remain in 2010, but I have hung up my boots for 2010 as far as adventure is concerned. It turned out to be a pretty good year: a few 14ers summited, two trips to Colorado, plenty of hiking and skiing, Peru, Mexico, India. Looking back, I feel exhausted and yet, this was the bare minimum I had to do to not feel I was leading a boring life. Everyone rolls differently, and that’s how I roll.
I don’t know if it’s because of these travelogues or if it’s because of the stories I bring from far away lands, but friends often ask me to inform them when I plan to travel next so they can try to join me. I say ‘Sure!’ but I know none of my special memories would’ve even occurred had someone else been with me. Once again, I suggest traveling alone if it’s possible: Besides discovering new things, you will discover facets about yourself that you had no idea about. Trust me on this one.
Through all these travelogues, my only intended takeaway is that anyone reading this should want to travel or undertake something adventurous. These travelogues are about me but they are not intended to be about me. I just hope to have romanticized traveling enough for *you* to pack your bags and leave for somewhere .. and soon.
Bon voyage.
Previous part here.
27th November.
I was leaving on the 28th and this was my last entire day in Mexico. I had asked a few friends for recommendations around Mexico City. In an e-mail conversation, Neeraj suggested the Teotihuacan pyramids. Buses leave Mexico City for Teotihuacan every hour, but the bus terminal was far away from the hotel. I didn’t want to take a cab. I had time so I decided to take the public transport. I took directions and a map from the hotel receptionist.
Mexico City is one of the largest cities in the world. It has an efficient and frequent network of buses (like BRTS) and metros that connect most of the city. With the help of broken Espaniol and some good people who paid change for me, I reached the terminus in an hour. Another bus and two hours later, I reached the pyramids.
Teotihuacan is a set of three huge pyramids built by the Totonacs: one for the sun, one for the moon and the third I don’t remember for what but I trust their good judgement. At the first pyramid, I saw a couple (or what looked like a couple) taking photographs of each other. I offered to take a photograph for them. Then I forgot about them. (I would later end up spending the rest of my time in Mexico with them.)
On the walk to the second pyramid, I walked past them. There was a second girl with them now. They were a group of three, not two, all about my age. As with everyone in Mexico, the girls were gorgeous and the guy was well-built. While I was walking past them, the guy asked me where I was from. The conversation was normal until I was asked where I worked. Mario, the guy, as it turned out is a big fan of the fruit company. Make that really big.
The girls, Gladys and Claudia, then told me I had no idea how big a fan he was. So make that really really big.
All three knew English fairly well so communicating was easy. Within a few minutes, I was having a great time talking to them. The girls were sisters visiting Mexico City. One of them was seeing Mario’s younger brother. That’s how the two families knew each other.
All three had travelled a lot. We exchanged stories of Alaska, Spain, Greece, Peru, Mexico, Himalayas. This was a great opportunity for me to understand Mexico from their perspective. I asked many questions. They were eager to know about India and my travels.
Three hours flew by just like that. We had seen all the pyramids and it was time for them to leave. Both of Mario’s younger brothers were participating in a state level swimming competition later that evening. They were both families of swimmers. Mario asked if I wanted to join them to see the event. I gladly agreed. So I hitched a ride back in their car to Mexico City. More talking, more stories, more laughter, more exchange. On the ride, I learnt I was having dinner at Mario’s home after the event. Requests went out to his home for vegetarian food too.
The swimming event was at Mario’s, his brothers’ and Claudia’s alma mater. About a hundred swimmers were warming up for their races or cooling down after their races at the pool. The races began just after we reached. The brothers were very good swimmers and one of them timed second.
Later, all brothers, the girls and I drove to Mario’s home. Great food prepared by Mario’s mother was waiting for us.
*****
On a parallel track, at the pyramids, I was asked by Claudia — who loves and is proud of Mexican food — how I found the food in Mexico. I happened to reply, ‘I’m sure Mexican food is awesome, but I didn’t have many options. I’m vegetarian.’ Claudia spent the rest of the day brainstorming Mexican dishes that were vegetarian and ones that I *had* to taste before I left.
*****
Back at Mario’s home, I was offered *all* the vegetarian dishes they could prepare. This was my first hearty meal in Mexico.
It was late in the night after we finished dinner and talking. Mario offered to drop me at my hotel. Everyone agreed to come along. Mexico is culturally very similar to India. After I thanked Mario’s mother for the great food and hospitality, she told me that I was like another son and could drop by any time. The family happens to own a holiday home in northern Mexico. I was told I could go there anytime ‘with your friends, family or even your girlfriend’.
When I was back at my hotel room, I wondered if I had just had the day I had. It all seemed too surreal.
*****
Looking back, I’ll have to thank Neeraj for it.
*****
28th November.
I had a good and complete night’s sleep after what seemed like a long time. After a heavy breakfast in the morning, I took the subway to the National Museum of Anthropology where I was supposed to meet Mario and Gladys. I usually stay away from museums, but this time the company was great so I couldn’t refuse their invite. The museum was fascinating: it was a record of Aztec, Mayan, Teotihuacan times all the way upto the Spanish occupation and contemporary Mexican society. Some of the artifacts and scenes were recreated but most of them were brought from various parts of Mexico for display at this museum. Throughout, Mario and Gladys narrated stories of Mexican history and revolution..
We also visited a nearby castle which had displays of the revolution of 1910. It also had portraits of different moustaches of that era (or it might just have been portraits of all presidents until now — hard to tell).
In an hour, it was time to say goodbye. It was time to let go, something I used to believe I was good at. But this time, I was finding it harder. I didn’t want to go back, at least not so soon. It had been just over 24 hours with the families, but there was some attachment with them and with Mexico. This trip was ending different from all other ones. I normally don’t wish to meet the people I meet on a trip, even those with whom I have a wonderful time. This time it was different: I actually wanted to meet everyone again. Maribel, Canchola, Marco, Guiseppe, the two not-gay dudes, Gladys, Mario, Claudia. (As I write this weeks later, I might actually meet some of them .. and pretty soon.)
I hired a cab for the airport with the fare pre-negotiated by Mario. As the cab drove off, I used my broken Espaniol to tell the cab driver that Mexico was a wonderful place.
We picked up my luggage from the hotel and headed to the airport.
Next part here.
Previous part here.
24th November.
I woke up at 9. It was already hot and sunny — much hotter than Tlachichuca. I glanced outside the window to get an idea of what clothing to wear. Shorts and t-shirt it was. I took a cold water bath (the climate and cold water bath reminded of summer holidays in Madras), packed my backpack, grabbed a sandwich from a grocery store and hopped onto the next bus for Tulum.
Tulum is a small horizontal coastal town with thick green tree cover. It looked like a rain-forest, but it wasn’t one, I was told by a cab driver. It is a laid-back town, in contrast to Cancun, and a great getaway for those who don’t want to stay in first-world Mexico in Cancun. Tulum is popular among backpackers and hippies.
As soon as I walked out of the bus terminal, I saw a restaurant which boasted of some vegetarian dish. I didn’t want to take any chances going forward, so I had an early lunch. I asked the restaurant owner for places to see in Tulum. He recommended the Mayan ruins on the beach and the artisans’ market.
I hired a cab to take me to the Mayan ruins first. Mayan ruins are common in that part of Mexico, but the Mayans didn’t build many settlements on the beach. When I saw the ruins, I could see why. It was a stunning location! Recollect those ads of beaches with white sand, light blue water and clear sky. Those are very much real inTulum. If I were a Mayan, I’d give up fighting and settle down at the beach.
I went for a swim in the sea and spent a few hours at the beach. When it started to get dark, I headed to the artisans’ market. I reached the artisans’ market after 5 p.m. Most shops had shut down for the day. So I had an early dinner at a nearby restaurant and walked to to a taxi stand to take a cab to the bus terminal. It shouldn’t cost most than 30 pesos, I thought. The cab driver said 50, I was adamant at 30, we compromised at 40. His name was Carlos and he spoke surprisingly good English. We spoke, I asked him about his family and within a few minutes, here was another momentary relationship.
When we reached the bus station, he wanted 30 pesos but now I didn’t mind paying 50.
I reached the bus terminal at 6.28, just in time for the 6.30 p.m. bus back to Cancun. Or what I thought was just in time. The next bus wasn’t until 7. I walked around the bus station when a guy approached me with a pamphlet for a nearby lodge. I had just finished my short stay at Tulum and wasn’t looking for a place to stay.
The guy didn’t look like a local. He was not very tall, had a thick beard and curly hair, and was in worn out jeans and a faded tshirt. And he looked happy (I’ve learnt to identify this over the years and I’m not often wrong).
His story then unfolded: He made silver ornaments in Italy (he was Italian) and visited Tulum every year with the money he saved. He worked at a lodge in Tulum for which he was soliciting customers, mostly foreign tourists (the lodge had WiFi). He also played the trumpet at local joints with some other musicians. All to earn his living during his stay.
He had seen the flute when I was re-packing my bag because of the delayed bus, and asked if it was a Peruvian flute. I said it was an Indian flute. He said that he had heard plenty of Indian music, and really liked the sitar, tabla and flute. I asked him if he wanted to learn Indian classical music. Why wouldn’t he say yes!
In 15 minutes, I gave him an introduction to Hindustani classical music and explained 3 ragas. He had studied music using the Do Re Mi notation, so I translated Hindustani theory into that notation. I had a pen and spare paper on which I wrote notes for him. His face lit up at the sound of every new raga I played. It was as if he had heard them previously but this time he was getting what was going on and he could now go back and recreate it on his instruments.
I’m not a great player or musician, but I can explain well whatever little I know. I had just condensed Hindustani music into half a piece of paper — which would be blasphemy if it weren’t for the happiness he felt.
He picked it all up beautifully. At the end of the fifteenth minute, he played Hamsadhwani on the Indian flute. That was the best moment of my trip.
I wished I could join his group to play music, but he had to work late and I had to take the bus to Cancun. Bummer.
Before leaving, I asked him to send his address in Italy so I could mail him an Indian flute.
*****
Weeks later in an e-mail reply, I learnt that his name was Guiseppe.
*****
This was yet another incident which made me want to travel without money. No one could tell I was from the first-world if it weren’t for my gadgets — except the camera, everything else belongs to the company. I own none of it. I don’t even travel like a rich kid or a first-world traveller: I try to stay in hostels or dingy rooms, sleep at airports and travel in buses. Not to save money, but to try and stay close to the locals and the kind of people I travel to meet. In a way, I try to get the best of both worlds when I travel: Use some money to get to places where I then travel like a backpacker.
But traveling without money and earning a living is an experience world apart. I always knew that someday I had to travel by letting go of money, and I’ll owe it to people like Aleksander in Ladakh and Guiseppe when I finally take that route.
How, why, when: Inshahallah soon.
*****
Looking back, all this took place just because I said Hi to Marco on the flight.
*****
25th November.
The next day was a tour to Chichen Itza. A minibus was to pick me up at 8. I was running out of fresh clothes to wear, so I woke up at 6, washed the used clothes, scattered them all over the room and left the rest to Cancun’s hot weather.
On the bus to Chichen Itza, the first stopover was at a sinkhole. Eastern Mexico has almost no lakes or rivers. The only sources of fresh water are sinkholes (think of them as huge, natural wells). After lunch on the way, we reached Chichen Itza. The group was split into English speakers and Espaniol speakers.
This was where the fun began. The guide for English speakers was an elderly man named Hugo. While we were walking towards Chitchen Itza from the main entrance, he gave us an introduction to the Mayan history. I wasn’t paying much attention, until I heard the words ‘and they also invented zero’ pass by.
As it turns out, we *think* Indians invented the zero. It was actually the Mayans. I was in half a mind to forward his contact to some of my favorite right-wing bloggers and the Hindu Janajagruti Samiti. Edit: As it turns out, he was partially right.
At the next stop, he spoke about the social structure of Mayans.
‘Mayans had different social classes, such as elites, warriors, common people .. It was like a caste system,’ and pointing towards me, ‘just like it is in Hinduism.’
He had figured out I was Indian, he had figured out I was Hindu, he knew much about Hinduism and he was doing his bit to spread awareness about Hinduism. Nice guy.
Hugo was also a Mayan apologetic. The ‘English speakers’ group was code European and American tourists. They grossed out whenever Hugo mentioned Mayan rituals which would invariably reveal something gross the Mayans did, such as after games the losing captain would be sacrificed, kings would have their sons’ foreheads pressed by wooden planks to grow long foreheads, and so on. Each time a lady in the group cringed at something dickish the Mayans did, Hugo’s reply was, ‘But this used to happen in all ancient civilizations across the world’.
Quite.
Chichen Itza has far too many hawkers. Keen to grab my attention, I heard some Namastes greet me. And among the stone artifacts being sold, I saw a dildo made of a special stone. Not exaggerating.
As for Chizhen Itza itself, it is a beautiful structure with superb acoustics. I’m not sure if those acoustic quirks were designed, but if they were: brilliant! Snakes and eagles were sacred to Mayans. Clapping at the base of the stairs causes an echo that sounds like an eagles call.
26th November.
This was my last day at Cancun. I had an evening flight back to Mexico City so I had until afternoon to visit Isla Mujeres (pronounced Is-laa Moo-ghe-res). I woke up to yet another hot day, left my baggage at the hotel front desk and took directions to the ferry. A shared van (not unlike the six-seaters of Pune) dropped me at the ferry, and a boat took me to the island an hour later.
The ambience on the boat was calming. Light blue sky, dark blue water, light winds and live Spanish music.
Isla Mujeres is a small island 7 kms long and half a kilometer wide with a coastal road that circles the island. Tourists rent golf carts, cars or scooters by the hour or day to commute. I rented a Scooty-ish vehicle and discovered I hadn’t lost my touch at all. Touch for Punekars — as Pu La would’ve said — does not mean just being able to ride a two-wheeler. It means being able to speed and cut across other vehicles. It is an art, some say.
I stopped at a few attractions on my way: a sea-turle farm, a light house, some Mayan ruins and a beach. After I was done, I still had 2 hours before I had to leave. So I made another trip around the island. And another.
Back at Cancun, I picked up my luggage from the hotel and took the the next bus for the airport.
At boarding time when I was walking towards the flight, someone tapped my shoulder and said ‘Hey!!’.
I turned around to see a huge guy about my age. He was clearly happy to see me (judging by his face, nothing else). I was confused as I had never seen him before. I hadn’t even seen anyone close to him. Just when I was wondering if this was a con, another guy of the same size caught up with us, saw me and said ‘Hey!!!! It’s you again!’.
This couldn’t be a con. If it was one, it was be the stupidest con ever because I was around airport security.
I had an amused look for a couple of seconds. I said, ‘I’m very sorry but I don’t remember you. Do I know you by any chance?’
‘We’re the photograph guys!’
‘Aaaaah!’
****
When I travel, I offer to take photographs whenever I see a member of a group taking a photograph of the rest of group. Think about it: Our most memorable photographs of any trip are of the entire group together.
Rewind to the Mayan ruins at Tulum. I happened to walk in on those two guys in their intimate moment. By intimate, I mean they were taking snaps of each other. I offered to take a photograph.
I ran into them again after 10 mins. They were doing the same thing again. I offered to take a photograph again.
That became our thing.
****
For the rest of the flight I had company.
I reached Mexico City late at night and my hotel at midnight. For the price I paid, I was expecting another dingy hotel like the one at Cancun. The hotel turned out to be a 4-star hotel at the financial center of Mexico City. The comfort of the hotel and continuous travelling made me want to stay in for the remaining two days and reconsider the rest of my plans.
But that wouldn’t be me.
Next part here.
Previous part here.
22nd November.
I felt great when I woke up in the morning. The sun was out, the sky was clear and I had finished the toughest leg of the trip. While I was waiting for Canchola to drive up there (He and his guides drive up every morning. I had no way of calling him, so I had to wait till someone showed up.), I freshened up and walked around the hut. There were a couple of crosses placed in the ground in memory of those who lost their lives on the mountain. I had a few hours to idle away, and I played the flute at the memorial site. One can only hope the deceased liked Des raga as much as I do.
The reverberation in the mountains was fascinating. The flute echoed for a few seconds after I stopped playing. That is the equivalent of an auditorium with a capacity of a few thousand.
*****
At moments like these, I realize how fortunate I am to not just appreciate music I hear, but to be able to recreate music I like and create wonderful music out of nothing.
*****
Canchola arrived at 12 p.m. I told him I summited the previous day. He was very happy — happier than I was after summiting — and gave me a giant bear hug, the kind Sreesanth never gets from Preity Zinta. In the next few mins., I packed my stuff and we loaded the jeep. We were back in Tlachichuca by 3 p.m.
I saw Maribel, and told her I successfully climbed the peak.
Maribel’s reply, ‘I don’t believe you. I need to see the photographs.’
I took it easy the rest of the day, speaking with the Cancholas and playing with the kids in the house. I was almost back to normal after losing all the calories the previous day.
My mind said I should’ve planned another high-altitude peak; my body forwarded this video to my mind.
23rd November.
After what seemed like many days, I woke up in a warm and cozy bed. After shower and breakfast, I had to take the next bus to Mexico City (the flight to Cancun was in the evening). I won’t forget Maribel and Canchola for treating me wonderfully and doing much more for me than what I had officially paid for.
I didn’t want to leave Tlachichuca so soon, but I had to take the 11 o’clock bus. The ride back through the mountains was beautiful. The people and the places — even the ‘second-class bus’ — were no different from India. Back in India, I loved to take state transport buses through small towns and this was just like those times.
The bus reached Mexico City airport at 4, in time for my flight at 6.
Cancun is a major tourist attraction for Western tourists for its beaches and its un-Mexico-ness. The passengers in the flight were predictably suave. A few minutes after the flight took off, I struck a conversation with a passenger across the aisle. It started with small talk — the only known way to man to start a conversation. The guy, Marco, was in his thirties and an environmental lawyer from Cancun. He asked where I was from. (I thought I didn’t look any different from the locals, but everyone I met knew I was from a different country, and most of those knew I was from India.)
Then Marco asked me where I worked. Fruit company, I said.
He was happy to meet someone who had actually worked on a recent fruit he purchased. However, he wanted a clear answer why some products didn’t work with his fruit. I tried to explain for about 15 minutes. but he accepted no answer. I told him of a few alternate ways of getting those products working.
Once we crossed that, for the next 15 minutes he gushed about how his 4 year old son absolutely adored the fruit and how great the products generally were. That, I had no problems listening to.
I had three days in Cancun. For the second day, I had booked a bus to Chichen Itza. I had no other plans at Cancun. I asked Marco for recommendations. His answer: You’re traveling alone, and you don’t even have kids. Don’t stay at Cancun. Come back to Cancun when you have kids.
He then told me of a place called Tulum — a hippie town with beautiful beaches just a couple of hours from Cancun by bus — and an island, Isla Mujeres, half an hour off the coast of Cancun. He gave me recommendations for hotels and contacts of his friends in those places. I already had a hotel booking in Cancun, so Cancun could be my base. The rest of the plan was set: 24th – Tulum, 25th – Chitchen Itza, 26th – Isla Mujeres.
The flight reached Cancun at 10 p.m. Marco gave me his contact and asked me to ‘call him if I wanted anything in Cancun’. The hotel I was staying at was right next to the bus terminal. I inquired about buses to Tulum before checking into the hotel. It was a small, dingy hotel, the kind I often stay at while traveling. Sleep came the minute I fell on the bed.
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Previous part here.
21st November.
I woke up at 3.30 a.m.
The first thought I had was ‘WTF am I doing here in an alien land leaving in a few minutes for a peak I know little about, instead of waking up in my warm, cozy comforter and my bed back home?’. These thoughts swing by when I wake up before every hike. They pass in a few minutes, but I know they’ll be back before the next hike.
It was a chilly night. I couldn’t hear the wind outside; it must have been still outside. It was also a full-moon night — moonlight found its way into the hut through the windows. I got out of my sleeping bag. By then, the other groups were awake too. I had ready-to-eat Maggi noodles for an early breakfast. I split the food I had carried for the hike into two parts, just in case I had to again make a summit attempt the next day. In about 20 minutes after sandhyavandanam (one wishes), I was ready to leave. One group left before me, and the second group invited me to join them. The first thousand feet was steep, and I was lagging behind the group. I asked them to go ahead so I could continue at my own pace: a pace reasonable for my current acclimation and oxygen intake. There was some snow on the initial part of trail increasing as I climbed higher. In a couple of hours, I had to wear crampons.
I could see the other groups — they were roughly 20 minutes ahead of me — but we were all moving very slowly. I needed more breaks than them. I was trying to breathe heavily and drink enough water to help with the acclimation.
The eastern sky was brightening up, and I still hadn’t reached the glacier. Looking back, I think the sunrise that day was spectacular, but I was in no condition to appreciate it. That’s how it always is.
I reached the glacier at 8 a.m. The glacier began at 16,500 ft. The other hikers were a hundred meters ahead of me. I strictly followed their footprints so that I didn’t discover any new crevasse. Upto 17,500 ft. the glacier wasn’t steep. At 17,500 feet, the trail steepened to around 50 degrees slope (This looks about right). There was very little oxygen in the air. I needed breaks every 10 minutes, but I had enough food and I felt quite good after a couple of minutes of rest. I knew I was going to make it to the summit.
From 17,500 ft. to ~18,300 ft. the steep path continued. A slip at this point was dangerous so I couldn’t let sleep or fatigue overtake the senses at any point. At 18,300 ft. is the summit ridge, after which it is an easy walk to the summit. It was 11 a.m. by now and I was still a few minutes from the summit ridge. I saw the other two groups appear on the summit ridge from behind the horizon. They were already on their way down! This also meant the summit couldn’t be far from the ridge.
At the summit ridge, I saw them rope up for their descent. I asked the first climber rappelling down how far the summit was. He said an hour and a half. Bollocks. They certainly weren’t three hours ahead of me to summit and return. But I had no way to judge. I couldn’t even see the summit from where I was. The guide for one group asked me if I had a rope. I said no. He advised me against climbing further up else I’d face problems on the way down. To me, it seemed pointless to return at this point. I was 10 minutes away from the summit ridge, after which it was an easy walk to the summit. I would have 10 extra minutes of difficult descent in exchange for summiting Pico De Orizaba. Fair deal. I told him I’d be fine and walked on. I made the summit ridge at 12.00 p.m. and saw a humongous crater in front of me. Pico De Orizaba was an active volcano centuries ago. An eruption in the 1600s left behind a crater that was a few hundred meters in diameter.
The trail follows the edge of the crater to the peak (as you can see in this photograph). I was mentally rejuvenated to see the peak, but physically still tired and adjusting to the altitude. I staggered along for the next 15 minutes and walked on the highest point at 12.20 p.m. I threw my backpack on the ice and fell down exhausted.
I felt nothing. I had travelled so far for exactly that. To feel ‘nothingness’ after an accomplishment.
Days or years later, I will be happy to have climbed Pico De Orizaba, but for that moment, all I wanted to relish was nothingness. I didn’t care about anything else in life. It was a feeling that trivialized everything else I knew.
I woke up when I started to feel chilly. It was well below zero degrees. There were mild winds further lowering the temperature. The sky was clear and the visibility was good. I absorbed the stunning views for a few minutes, took some photographs, ate some protein bars and dry fruits, drank some Gatorade but unlike other peaks, I didn’t call anyone. Not that I didn’t want to share the feeling, but it was more important to get back to the base safely first.
Just before leaving, it struck me that I was close to 19,000 ft., and — trusting climbers on the other highest peaks on the planet weren’t at the summit that very instant — it was possible that I was the highest person on all continents barring Asia at that moment. At the very least, I was the highest person standing on five continents. It was a wonderful feeling that meant absolutely nothing.
Back at 18,300 ft. looking down from the summit ridge, the descent seemed fairly steep. But I had a secret weapon: glissading.
*****
From Wikipedia:
Glissading is the usually voluntary act of descending a steep slope of snow in a controlled manner either for the sheer thrill of the ride or to bypass tedious scree. Glissading is an alternative to plunge stepping and also cuts down on descent time.
[....]
Sitting glissade: This is the easiest type of glissade and generally provides the best feeling control. It is also less tiring than a standing or crouching glissade in softer snow. To perform a sitting glissade one sits down and slides on the slope usually holding on to an ice axe in a self-arrest position, especially when the run-out of the slope is in question.
*****
I had some experience glissading at Mt. Shasta and I thought I could merrily slide down. I took off the crampons, I tied them to my back pack and sat at the edge of the slope with the ice-axe in a self-arrest position and ready to glissade down. I slid down a bit and using the ice axe, I stopped myself in 15 feet. The ice seemed okay for glissading. The next 20 feet glissade was fine too.
On the third slide down, I slid down a few feet and pushed the ice axe into the snow to lower the speed. No change in speed. I turned around and pushed by entire body weight onto the ice axe. I was still sliding down. This wasn’t supposed to happen! Pushing one’s entire body weight is the most one can do to arrest the speed. However, the snow was soft and melting in the afternoon sun, and I kept sliding. Even worse: The trail took a left in a few hundred ft. and the path I was on headed towards a rock cliff. The first 3 seconds or so is the only time you have to react in case of a slide. Once you cross that, the speed of fall is too much to stop yourself.
All this went was going through my mind in a split second. I wasn’t sure what to do (I wasn’t wearing crampons to help get a grip on the snow; I took them off before glissading). As a last resort, I kicked as hard as I could into the snow. My right foot went right into the snow, I got a foothold and the slide stopped.
I was stunned for a minute. I had to calm the mind and let my breathing to return to normal before I could plan ahead. I knew I had *narrowly* escaped from something rather bad. I had also lost precious energy reacting to the fall.
After I regained my composure, first I made sure my current foothold foothold was okay. Next, using the ice axe, I dug a hole in the snow large enough for me to stand in. The crampons were off the backpack and on the shoes. I slowly started walking down. It was steep but I followed existing footprints and it didn’t seem too bad.
A few hundred feet later I was on the glacier and the slope was much lesser. It was a vast open ice field, with no danger of cliffs or rock. I reckoned I could now glissade down and avoid having to walk the distance. The crampons went back into the backpack. Very cautiously, I started glissading down. This time though, the ice was hard (I was on a glacier), and I couldn’t push the ice axe far enough into the ice. In a few seconds — this time upside down facing the mountain — I was tumbling down. The slope wasn’t much so I didn’t pick up much speed. The ice axe was tied to my wrist, so I got hold of it and manage to arrest myself. This was the first time ever that I had tied the ice-axe to my wrist.
The other climbers were in sight at this point. They looked up when they heard me crashing down the ice. They were probably wondering WTF was up with me.
I was done with glissading for the day (just for the day, not forever), even if it meant I had to walk all the way back. It was around 3 p.m. and I had a couple thousand feet to descend. I didn’t think I could make it back before dark, but I had a headlamp. I took frequent rests and lost the way for a few minutes after dark. Having to scout for the trail kept me thinking and didn’t make me realize that I hadn’t had a proper meal for over 14 hours. In the fifteenth hour — at around 7 p.m. — I staggered back to the hut.
A couple of climbers who had arrived during the day welcomed me as I walked into the hut. They had many questions about the mountain. I could barely speak, but I gave them some tips (the first one being NO glissading) and went back to my spot. I was hungry and sleepy. Sleep won, and I fell asleep in a few seconds. I woke up at midnight when the newer groups were preparing to leave, cooked dinner and went back to sleep.
*****
A couple of days ago back in the U.S., I narrated this story to a few friends. My friend’s wife asked me if I’d go there again, alone. I said ‘Absolutely!’. Her reply: ‘Some people think they are smart just because they were lucky.’
Not quite. I know the scares could have been avoided. I know I didn’t make some of the best decisions. I don’t consider the experience as something heroic on my part: At the most, I merely reacted to events that could have been avoided altogether.
Someday I might not be so lucky. It’s just probability. I’m aware of that. But it’s a choice I have made.
*****
Next part here.
Previous part here.
The Cancholas lived in a small, single-storeyed house; their guests lived in a two-storeyed building next to their house and a large front yard separated the two. Their property was surrounded by high walls. I presume it keeps their house safe because people living in mountainous regions are bad climbers.
I had corresponded with Mauricio, who ran the agency. He was going to be out of town for my entire stay, but he mentioned in his last e-mail that Maribel and Canchola would take good care of me.
I was welcomed by a woman in her thirties who turned out to be Maribel, Mauricio’s sister. Maribel showed me my room. I had many questions about logistics for the rest of the trip. I was told that no one drove into the mountains after noon (the road is rough so they only drive during the day time) which meant I had to leave within an hour if I wanted to sleep at the base camp that night. I took a quick shower, packed all that I needed for the trek, and took directions to the town market. I needed some supplies (fruits, medicine for altitude sickness, soup).
Tlachichuca is a small town at the base of Pico De Orizaba. Most shop-owners didn’t speak English, and I relied on my passable acting skills to ask for altitude sickness tablets. At the fruit stall, the bananas were in plain sight and I just pointed at them. Thankfully for everyone there, I did not have to enact anything for the banana.
****
It is amusing how language is stripped down to its bare essentials when language is used for mere communication. Eventually, even when I spoke in English with locals, I only used nouns and verbs instead of grammatically complete sentences.
****
The supermarket at Tlachichuca was yet to open. I walked back to the Cancholas’ home and I asked Maribel if she had any soups and breakfast to pack. She perfectly understood when I said I was a vegetarian and within minutes she was back with ready-to-eat chicken soup. Not for the soul.
‘Ummm .. no.’
She came back with tuna soup.
‘No’.
The third time, either she understood ‘vegetarian’, or the soup just happened to be vegetarian. She also packed a couple of cheese sandwiches and mushroom rice for the road.
Maribel believed I was in too much hurry (while at the same time she hurried me to get ready). She was sure I was a typical youngster too reckless to care care of myself. She had assumed the responsibility of being my mother.
‘Have you taken gaiters?’
‘Have you taken your stove and fuel?’
‘Sunglasses?’
‘Gloves?’
I assured her I had taken everything and that I’d be fine.
‘Okay, but if you forgot anything, tell Canchola.’
Canchola was Maribel and Mauricio’s father, a man in his sixties who had guided people hikers to Pico De Orizaba for over 40 years. His forearms were larger than my biceps. Enough said.
We got into an old 4×4 jeep,and set off. He was a jolly old man. We understood very little of each other’s language and yet we kept talking. I offered him half my sandwich (which looked really good and I was very hungry). He politely declined. I liked him.
We spoke while I finished my sandwich, then I fell asleep (falling asleep was going to be a common feature of this trip). We reached Piedra Grande in a couple of hours. I had come from 0 ft to 14,000 ft. in less than 12 hours, and I was barely able to walk up to the hut. The air was thin, and I could very much feel it. There is a strange tingling sensation when the body is not adjust to the attitude. That is how I can tell if I’m not acclimatized.
Visibility was clear and I could see Pico De Orizaba looming overhead. The mind began mental calculations of the climb and guessing the route to the top.
I chose a spot in the hut and we transferred my gear and equipment inside. Canchola hung around for a while talking to the hikers in the hut. There were 3 hikers in the hut when we walked in: T, with her local guide, and another hiker J who was Mexican.
T was a woman in her 50s from Michigan, and was leaving for Tlachichuca when we arrived. She couldn’t complete the hike because of altitude sickness and nausea halfway through the hike. J was an interesting guy. It was his 46th birthday that day and the 16th time he was celebrating it at the hut. He tries to be at the base of Pico De Orizaba every birthday, and hikes upto the glacier (which is halfway to the summit).
There was an impromptu birthday celebration. We sang and he cut a cake, which was a piece of bread.
T, her guide and J left the hut in some time, I said goodbye to Canchola, and I cozied into my sleeping bag. I wanted to get as much rest as possible. I woke up in a couple of hours, and found two other groups had arrived. It was almost evening. After our introductions, both groups said that they planned to start that very night. However, both groups had been to a nearby peak at 17,000 ft. in the last couple of days. They were acclimatized. I wasn’t, and I was still deciding if I should make an attempt that very night.
*****
By this time, I had forgotten I was in a different country. There was a mountain and there were climbers wanting to summit it, which is what you find at the base of every mountain, even Mt. Everest.
A few thousand feet below us was the country I had crossed to get to this point.
*****
I decided to go for an acclimation hike. An acclimation hike is a small, non-strenuous hike done to acclimatize better and judge how the body is coping to the altitude. I had some soup, packed a light backpack and my wooden flute and started walking on the trail. I walked up a few hundred feet — it was hard and my pace was slow — and settled on a rock to play the flute. I played notes as they naturally came to me and it ended up being raga Bhoopali, likely because Bhoopali has the same notes as Pahadi raga, the raga of the mountains. For the next half an hour, a raga vistaar on the flute entertained the mountains. I was later told by fellow hikers that they found the music ‘inspirational’.
*****
I haven’t formally learnt Hindustani music and it is possible that the music I played would have made stalwarts of Hindustani music jump from Pico De Orizaba.
*****
When I walked back to the hut, I felt much better. I reckoned I could take a shot at the summit that very night. I cooked an early dinner and slept by 7 p.m. The next day was going to be long — if I made it even close to the summit.
Next part here.
(Tlachichuca is pronounced: T-la-chi-choo-ka. Pico De Orizaba translates to the ‘peak of Orizaba’. Orizaba is a city near the peak.)
I mentioned in the post before I left why I chose to climb Pico De Orizaba: It is the highest peak in North America doable around November. There was another reason though. In the final hours of my trip to Peru while I was at the Lima airport, I met a Mexican guy about my age. He worked for an NGO in Mexico and was in Peru for a conference. He gathered that I liked to trek and said, “Hey you should come to Mexico to climb Pico De Orizaba.” And just like that, Pico De Orizaba was on my to-do list.
I would have loved to consult him for my itinerary but all I had was his first name, Jose. (In Latin America, that’s the information equivalent of not knowing his name.)
Preparations:
This was the least planned of all my solo trips. I had tickets to and from Mexico 10 days apart. I had roughly 80 hours to plan and climb Pico De Orizaba after I landed in Mexico. I had a ticket to Cancun (a beach town on the east coast of Mexico) for 3 days in between. This was all the information I had before I left. Not planning further turned out to be a good decision — probably the best as I would learn later.
Most of my hiking/travelling shopping was done before Peru. I only needed to pack my bags this time around. Pico De Orizaba requires mountaineering gear as the trail crosses a glacier and much of the hike is through snow and ice. I carried winter clothing (snow jackets, ski pants, gloves, ear-muffs, ski socks), but I didn’t have to carry crampons, boots and ice-axe; I was renting them at Tlachichuca.
The rest of the packing was simple: Light clothes (track pants, shorts; no jeans), music on the phone and a pair of slippers.
I worked from home on Friday, the 19th of Nov., so I could also take care of last minute preparations, or as I call them: preparations. Late afternoon, I was dropped off at the airport. My flight was delayed by an hour because of bad weather at San Francisco. The connecting flight was from Dallas and the original layover was an hour an a half. Now it would be 30 mins. The American Airlines representative was quite helpful. She double booked me, meaning she *also* booked me on another flight from Dallas to Mexico City for the next morning. Taking the morning flight would mean precious hours were being cut from the 80 hours I had to climb Pico De Orizaba — but I had no other choice.
We vilify airlines all the time, so let me commend American Airlines for being helpful when it wasn’t expected of them.
The morning flight wasn’t needed. A half-mile sprint at Dallas airport and I made it to the gate of my next flight. I was the last to board before they shut the door. I just wasn’t sure about my checked-in luggage. It made the flight too.
20th November.
Since I had been traveling for the past few months, I wasn’t as excited to go to Mexico as others wanted me to be. It was another routine travel (This sounds obnoxious, but it’s not. I’m just trying to reason the lack of excitement.) The impending trip didn’t even figure in my scheme of things as I was swamped with work for a few days before I left. Further, Mexico wasn’t something I had planned months ago and was looking forward to. It was put together a couple of weeks ago.
Only when my flight started to land at Mexico City, the feeling started to sink in: I was in an unknown land for 10 days with a 19,000 ft. peak to summit, alone. And I didn’t know the language.
The flight reached Mexico City at 12.45 a.m. on Saturday. The airport looked somewhere between a U.S. airport and the Lima airport, which in turn was between a U.S. airport and an Indian airport. Do the mental math. I reached immigration just before the counter shut down at 1 a.m. I didn’t have to apply for a visa beforehand: Indian passport holders with a valid U.S. visa don’t need one for Mexico. I handed my passport to the officer.
“Aah, Deepak! La Deepak Chopra!!”
Mexico was more dangerous than I thought. Deepak Chopra was famous here.
(This would be the first of five “Oh! Like Deepak Chopra?”s I heard in Mexico. The guy is wildly popular in Mexico — or in Deepak Chopra’s words: The infinite consciousness of the finite minds of beings in Mexico were conscious of a quantum of Deepak Chopra’s works.)
I asked, ‘Is he well-known here?’
‘Yes, my wife has read his book.’ (The first of three “My wife has read his book.”s).
He was curious (not as an immigration officer) why I was traveling alone. I must have given him one of the several answers I have for that question. The real answer is somewhere between ‘I like to travel alone’ and ‘I don’t like to travel with others’.
Next, I took directions from the officer for the bus terminal located at the airport. The first bus, wise folks online had said, wasn’t until 6 a.m. My plan was to sleep at the airport for the next 5 hours — fresh with the Lima airport experience and the website http://www.sleepinginairports.net/ (That’s a real website that you ought to read if you plan to sleep at airports).
*****
The itinerary I had in mind for the hike was:
Take the 6 a.m. bus from Mexico City to Puebla, the 8 a.m. bus from Puebla to Tlachichuca, rest in Tlachichuca for the remainder of the day and hitch a ride for the base camp the next day. This was planned before I checked out trip reports of Pico De Orizaba. Two days before leaving, I realized that Pico De Orizaba was not going to be trivial. The number one reason for failed attempts was lack of acclimation.
Acclimation is your body (lungs mainly) getting used to the low oxygen at higher altitudes. The only known way of acclimation is by spending enough time or sleeping at high altitudes. Breathing exercises and drinking plenty of water helps, but nothing beats spending time.
For perspective, 12,000+ ft. is considered high altitude, 17,000+ ft. is considered extreme altitude. Remember all the while that Mt. Everest is at 28,000+ ft.
So I figured I should leave for the base camp on the 20th night itself — the same night instead of the next morning. This would give me an additional night’s sleep at the base camp. The base camp is a two hour ride from Tlachichuca. It’s really just a hut at 14,000 ft. called Piedra Grande. Hikers stay here before making the summit attempt. I needed the extra acclimation because I was going straight from sea level (San Francisco) to 18,500 ft in one push.
*****
Back at the Mexico City airport, I walked to the bus terminal. I was told the first bus to Puebla was at 2.30 a.m. (and not as 6 a.m. as I had read). I booked my ticket, and walked back to the airport terminal. The food court was open, and there were about 20 travelers eating, sleeping or recharging their electronics. I ordered a sandwich at the first food-stall that had vegetarian food. The sandwich was just okay, not great. (Vegetarianism is my choice and I’m okay with eating to live when I travel. Vegetarianism does seem elitist at times, and I’m never morally righteous about it. I just treat it as any other personal choice.)
I found a spot under a pillar and got an hour’s sleep. I woke at 2.25 a.m. and walked to the waiting bus. It was a comfortable, cushioned bus (first-class) and I dozed off within minutes. The bus reached Puebla in 2 hours as promised. My next bus wasn’t until 6 a.m. so I toggled between sleep and observing people. Puebla is a small town, and the demographic at the bus terminus was representative of what I would see throughout my trip: Most women were beautiful (and curvy), most men were macho — mustaches were quite common — and most kids were doing what kids do at 4 a.m.: Not letting their parents sleep.
I forced myself to sleep lest I ruin my body clock.
The next bus was a ‘second-class bus’. I boarded it and gave the driver a printout of where I wanted to be dropped off: Right outside the agency with whom I had booked mountaineering equipment, stay and a 4X4 ride to the base camp. Their place was called Hotel Canchola. A couple of hours later, I was at the main entrance of their hotel.
Next part here.
Blogging will be slow for a few days as I’m visiting family in India. On the bright side, I managed to complete the Mexico travelogue on the long flight to India. It’ll be here in a few hours.
P.S.: In the Peru travelogue, I tried embedding photographs. A friend suggested that the travelogue worked better without photographs in the post: Photographs make visuals explicit and hinder imagination. Therefore, Photographs will follow in a day or two.
Speaking of cannibalism, I came across this fascinating interview of Romanian philosopher Cătălin Avramescu about morality and cannibalism:
Until recently, moralists did not exactly have a craving for vegetarianism. Avoiding meat was mainly a religious imperative and even that was interpreted creatively. Medieval Eastern Orthodox monks, for instance, declared the European beaver, now almost extinct, to be a sort of furry fish, since it was an aquatic creature. That definition made it acceptable for a diet that forbade the consumption of red meat during specific periods.
What was significant for the moralist was not always what you eat, but how. In other words, what was at stake in early modern ethical discourse was not primarily the substance of the food, but the manners of the table. In the seventeenth century, for instance, refined cuisine was not for the faint-hearted. How animals were raised, sacrificed, cooked, and consumed reveals a brutal side of the early modern heart. I suspect things have not changed much to this day; back then, however, this brutality was more open for anyone to see. In an age of increasing refinement, this paradox troubled a few minds. They wept and yet they ate the objects of their compassion.
Moralists, then, focused on the manners of the table as a manifestation of the moral order (or disorder) of a society. That was the “larger debate” you mentioned. The question, then, for the early modern philosopher, is: where do you start deriving a moral science from? Here is where cannibalism comes into play, as a result of the shock it inflicts upon the modern moralist. It raises in him an elementary passion, and forces him to think about the human being in very exceptional circumstances and in an extreme state of derangement.
Speaking not as a vegetarian but as an observer, I don’t find cannibalism odd. And I certainly am hesitant to judge it as a concept. I would have a problem if someone killed me to eat me, but as long as I live in a society where no one is allowed to infringe on another human’s life, I’ll be fine. Beyond the realms of such societies, cannibalism ought to be okay.
At one level, cannibalism is no different than eating any other meat. By that, I don’t mean meat-eating is equivalent to cannibalism. I mean cannibalism is a form of meat-eating. To some, it may seem gross. Just like eating meat is gross to some. Just like any animal product is gross to some. Just like killing and eating plants is gross to some (surely there is someone who feels so).
*****
Necro-cannibalism on the other hand, practiced by tribes such as the aghoris, shouldn’t even be up for debate. I can’t think of any reason why anyone would have a problem with it.
Link via Raghu.
