Like a Friend Expected/Sonic Tonic

27/10/07
Grañon, Spain

It's cold now. Starting to move into the 'properly cold' territory. The next few days walk will take me higher and closer to the open, cold meseta - the giant plateau of central northern Spain. While at only around 800m, the lack of nearby ocean and the vast openness of the land means that bitter cold is likely to be my companion for the next two weeks.
The refugio I am in tonight is simply beautiful in a staying-in-the-bell-tower-of-the-church rustic kind of way - everything done with an old school ascetic functionality in mind; mattresses on floors, open fire, long wooden dining table. Gryffindor Tower comes to mind, too, especially because of the immediately close friendship offered. So, it's also beautiful because of the warmth of the welcome I received when I arrived. The French hospitalero couple looking after this place greeted me with smiles and comfort as if I were a friend expected. I find myself reminded of Athos, in Greece - that same Christian welcome and sense of ascetic homeliness. I'm touched by it, by the simple humanity of it.
As I write the husband, who is cooking tonight, is quizzing his wife on what spices he needs to add to the soup. In front of me a small fire crackles quietly in the large fireplace, somehow throwing plenty of heat into the room (along with a fair bit of smoke). In the background a CD of Gregorian chants plays, and its haunting chords and melodies feel right at home here. It is a music that speaks of ascetic life of long cold winters and purpose.
This is very much a journey of simplicity - forced and desired. Needs are simple: bed, food, water, warmth, Way markers. In the context of looking after these immediate needs the plethora of superfluous, vain, or simply bored ones drops away. The experience is both liberating and enlightening. The 'stuff' one tends to imagine one needs for life loses much of its provenance and begins to float untethered in the mind, eventually drifting off into the distance. The demonstrated, experienced simplicity of life gives one hope; "You know, I think I really can be happy. It doesn't actually take that much... And all this time I thought I couldn't... Huh." Freed of the mundane (which I actually suspect is the stuff we often don't need, largely) the mind turns both inward and outward. Important questions, sometimes long neglected, come into undistracted focus, and the small beauties of the physical world are regarded.
Likewise, one's fellow pilgrim becomes of great concern - their health, their happiness (here and at home). It is a care that somehow many of the hospitaleros share. I don't know how they do it, day after day, new face after new face. It is a life of service (although most are volunteers for a few weeks at a time only). Like many who give their time to others, the couple here told me they draw great joy, a deep personal joy, from their time of service here, despite the stress it sometimes brings. But I think it also is a life of purpose, driven by the simple needs of fellow pilgrims, fellow human beings; warmth of house and welcome for weary beings, food and water for hungry bellies, and bedding for tired bodies. But somewhere in the dynamic of care there there arises something that nourishes both fed and feeder. Reduced to such simple needs acts of kindness uncalled for or friendship unearned glow like fire, and it is clear that the unadorned light falls on both.
It seems as though the act of care is as important for the carer as for their often anonymous charge.

29/10/07
Burgos, Spain

Today I took 80,000 steps. At the end there was music, laughter, dancing, and singing. Inhibitions often seem temporarily vanquished as the sun goes down each day, by weariness, by friendship. Now there is silence, like that between songs, as the pilgrims make their daily chores - bathing, washing, tending to feet. Some write in diaries, some in emails, but now the music is over people go about it refreshed. The songs were like tonics, and we drank them, all.

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Oh Chorizo!

So finally an update (so long between drinks!). Here I am in Spain, a land in which people fight bulls (not sure why yet), run from bulls (pretty obvious after the fighting really), and then eat the bulls (or at least some of them). It´s also a land in which everything happens in the bar (apart from the fighting of and running from the bulls). Coffee? Bar. Beer? Bar. Food? Bar. Breakfast (sometimes done with a beer... shudder)? Bar. Ah Spain... where the men are doe-eyed, floppy-haired, and short-short wearing, and the women are feirce looking and often sporting battle mullets of thick black hair.
Speaking of which... this is indeed the land of battle mullets, possibly best described as a conventional mullet with some extra length around the hairline (this bit would stick out from under your helmet). Often Spaniards armed with such mullets will make themselves even more feirce looking by the addition of some small dreadlocks, or the simple refusal to wash. It´s quite a look and I must say I´m tempted to try it (especially now that I am beardless). But the battle mullet is, to me, an indication of a broader under-current of rebelliousness embedded in Spanish culture. You see it on the streets in the form of grafiti or in the dress of the youth of the nation, and you see it in the sheer amount of art that is publicly funded and displayed. This seems to me to be a country that encourages rebellion for rebellion´s sake. As a result it is clearly a nation of little nations: Catalan, Basque, Gallego, etc. A bit of rebellion is, after all, good for the soul.
This is, of course, also the land of chorizo and black-red gutsy wine - best consumed together, really. Quite a few of my fellow pilgrims have complained of the overwhelming presence of chorizo. Chorizo, chorizo, chorizo. It´s everywhere, and mostly awesome.
The Camino here is very different from the Chemin of France. For one thing the average age of pilgrims dropped by something like 30years with the Pyrenees crossing. For another, as a pilgrim you are now well and truly into the land of the Camino, and there is plenty of infrastructure around to help you along. One manifestation of this (stemming from the historical importance of the Camino) is that the route passes through large cities (ok 100,000+ people). This is both nice and unpleasant; nice because you get access to all the luxuries and commodities that cities bring with them, unpleasant because you often have to share the road with the large trucks bringing in those commodities...
But there is compensation. Here is Spain there are many more pilgrims, and the lowering of the average age (sorry oldies) means thateveryday is a celebration. But more on that in the next post.
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A High Goodbye

The French section ended for me not long after the section from Navarrenx - Ostabat. Two days later I was relaxing with Abi in a wonderful little Chambre d´Hote on the banks of the Nive, a couple of hundred metres upstream from St Jean Pied de Port. It was a needed break and having the time to simply relax and enjoy a village, with Abi at my side, was hevenly. St Jean itself is a very pretty little town, nestled at the ´foot of the pass´to Spain. Plenty of bare peaks to be looked at, bubbling stream full of little trout (traditional food for the passing pilgrims), a few good restaurants. Thankfully the weather was spectacular too, so the two of us spent days wondering the town or simply sitting in our hotel´s little garden by the Nive, munching on brebis, local hams, and chocolate that should probably be banned it was so good.
But all good things come to an end, and after three days rest it was time for me to move on (and Abi to go back to work).
So on the 15th of October I set off from the Port d´Espagne for the 1200ish metre climb. I had heard a great deal about how difficult this was, even for experienced walkers, and to allow a good 8 hours at least. I was also a little worried about how fit I was, especially after three rest days. Well... after blasting past a couple of puffing Spaniards, a wiry Frenchman, and a chap on a mountain bike I decided that, yes, I am fit. In fact, I made it to Roncesvalles in a little over 6 hours, including half an hour stopped at the Fontaine Roland (near the border) for lunch. I was quite proud that I beat a person on a mountain bike over the Pyrenees!!
As for the walk itself, it was, simply put, stunning (this PC doesn´t like my camera so no photos for now). The climb was very steep at times, but this resulted in majestic, sweeping vistas being presented to you at every other corner. My only difficulty lay in the 40km/hour (conservative estimate... felt like 60) headwind that raged all day.
Just to make things interesting for walkers I passef through during dove hunting season, which meant apart from the howling of the wind, the bleeting of sheep, and my own steps, the other dominant sound in my memory are the volleys of gunfire that rang through the day. My introduction to this still makes me laugh... At one point the road dipped slightly, a small ridge rising above to the right. As I hummed along, content to be in the lee of the earth and without wind forcing tears from my eyes, I noticed the pretty twitter of birdlife in the few trees. "How lovely!", thought I... Boom, boom, boom, boom (encore). I nearly hit the deck because the blasts from the shotguns were obviously only metres away, just above my head. No more twittering... But also no sign of any hunters, or of their fallen prey . Deciding that exit was the best strategy I made quickly for the bend in the road ahead where I promptly saw the sign warning me of the prevailing artillery. Rounding the bend I could also see the answer to my beffudlement as to the source of the gunfire. Every 50m or so along the ridge was a little ´bunker´, behind which a hunter or two huddled. None of them were moving to find downed birds (I suspect they may have bumped their sights with the bottles of wine they drink to keep warm, throwing their shots wide...). And yes, the fields of fire from the bunkers must only have been a couple of metres above my head.
The rest of the day was spent smilling broadly at the spectacular views, and marvelling (again... this must be so borring for you all) that this is part of my work. Roncesvalles made for a grand site as the highest point was topped, the grey monastery walls standing out starkly against the autumnal forrests.
More on Spain soon.
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The Forty Kilometre Day

This is an account of some of my day from Navarrenx to Ostabat. I wasn´t really sure whether to put it up here as it almost sounds like... bragging or martyrdom... or something. However, because the story contains exactly the types of things I ask people to talk about when I interview them I reason that it is only fair that I share my story too.


It was a hard day, probably one of the most difficult of my life physically and mentally, and so I hope that the story, or what little of it is shared here, might help or inform others in whatever ways they need.

.........................


As I sat in the little dinning room of the gite/chambre d´hote I had found for the evening in Ostabat I listened to the owner sing a folk song in Basque. He was a handsome country man with a grin that could warm even the coldest heart. Lined, working hands, like spades, handled the plates, and when empty turned palms backwards so that when he swung his arms as he walked it looked as if he was ploughing his way this way and that. I couldn´t understand a word of the song, but it was of the type that communicated its message through melody and tone: somewhat sad and nostalgic. A song sung by older men about a more carefree time.
While I listened and watched him set the table for dinner I tried to recall the days events. I was tired, exhausted in fact, and as I began to write I found my hands shaking. It was slow to come. Much of the day was gone from my memory, though some brief snippets came back: walking through the dark of Navarrenx as I departed, searching for balises; a little dog I presumed either wild or abandoned who befriended me and trotted along at my side for some 5-6km before heading off-road to inspect some cows, the bitterly cold wind and heavy rain on the descent to Arroue. But of country, town, and path I remembered little.
However, two particular moments stood out. The first was shortly after leaving Arroue. I was moving downhill, driving rain coming from the right. I had been worrying more and more about the identical blisters I had on each foot - on the sole between the big-toe and its neighbour. They had been very painful all morning, but with the cold and the rain, and passing the 20km mark they became excruciating. My mind started to play games. I knew there was a gite in Arroue that I could go back to. There it would be warm, dry, and I could sit instead of having every step like a knife in the foot. Quite suddenly I hit a threefold wall - physical (rain, cold, wind, steep descending roads = painful on the blisters), mental ("oh fuck my blisters hurt"), and emotional ("I´m not capable of doing this"). But the effect was external, like having to struggle against a fast running tide, a wall of bizarre, impenetrable air.
I almost stopped from it, probably only the downhill momentum keeping me going. But mentally I was beaten by the three-pronged assault, and my mind began formulating images of warm dry feet and an easy afternoon in front of a fire (even though there is no open fire at the Arroue gite as far as I know). Every part of me cried to stop and turn back. "Be sensible!" "You don´t have to do this." And finally, "You can´t do this". For a second I stopped, but then something snapped. I knew I had to go on. I had to be in Saint Jean Pied de Port the next day to meet Abi, and to do that I needed to walk 40km that day. But inside I felt like whatever physical barriers I met I had to overcome them. I tried going forward but pain and doubt stopped me again. Suddenly, uncalled for images came; my mother and father, their love, support, and approval for me written on their faces, proud that I would face the challenge and accept it simply and without ill-feeling; my grandfathers, neither of whom I ever met, but from whom I understood that this was something that I could do, in the same way they faced horrors I can´t begin to imagine; and my three brothers, at their ease and looking at me, watching, but with the glint in the eye, the nod, and the smile they said "we´re with you. You can do this". I looked up and walked forward and tears joined the rain pouring down my face as I sobbed openly.
The physical sensation of struggling against a tide remained, but with the hallucinations swimming in my vision I could walk. And then I can only explain that I blacked out, or lost time (kidnapped by aliens maybe). I have no memory of the next hour or so, but I do remember coming to, like having a spell broken, as the rain stopped. I found a strip of road not flowing with water and halted, removed my boots, and lunched.

The second incident occurred sometime later. I must have ´blacked out´ again after lunch because my next memory is of coming to very slowly, like swimming under water towards the surface from a great depth. I knew it was raining very, very hard because my first sense was of my trousers sticking to my legs, a cascade of water off my rain-jacket joining the airborne moisture pouring down them. I wondered about this for a while, not quite realising what it meant. Stupid with tiredness or whatever it was I wondered why this had never happened before, and why my toes were cold. Then, as my senses began to function again I realised I couldn´t see. My glasses were covered in drops of water and fogged over. I don´t know how I had managed to navigate like this as I literally could not see a thing. I removed them and snapped back to full consciousness.
I was walking on a road down a very steep hill, and I realised that what I had taken for cold toes were in fact wet ones. Wet feet to be precise, and the puzzle became clear. The gale blowing against me from the front right pressed my trousers against my legs. The rain the wind carried with it soaked my trousers and ran down my legs into my boots. Looking down I saw, and could now hear, that with every step came a little fountain of water out of each boot with an accompanying "squelch". Now I became afraid. My blisters were bad enough, but here, I thought, was an opportunity for gargantuan ones to form deep below the hardened out skin. "How long had I walked with my feet like this?", I thought. It must have been a while because I could feel my feet ´pruning´.
I knew I had to stop, but the land I was walking through was open pasture. It would have been pointless to stop there, so I walked on, getting more and more worried about my feet. I fancied I could feel the soles slowly peeling off (more ridiculous mind games), and the road was getting even more steep, causing me to worry about slipping. The torrential downpour continued, and so did I until with a thud I came to the valley floor. Visions of foot-sized blisters now played with my head. It must have been half an hour since I had ´awoken´ and I knew the situation was dire. Thankfully, as I rounded a bend I saw ahead a small bus shelter. Hopes and prayers answered!! Saved! I raced towards it and as I got closer thanked whichever god it is that is the one in charge of bus shelter placement, and indeed the local council engineer responsible for deciding to place this particular one such that it faced away from the prevailing rain. There was no seat, but inside it was dry, and I threw down my pack and sat on it to remove my boots and socks.
The next 25mins were spent drinking water, munching on chocolate and dried apricots, and smoking about four cigarettes with shaking hands while my boots slowly drained. I wrung out my socks and put on my second pair (still damp from the night before). But I knew I had gotten through the worst of the day, and I wasn´t worried anymore, just relieved. I didn´t know where I was, only that I was still on the Chemin (thank you GR65 administrators for the excellent signage). As I set off I was still in great pain but I was OK about it, and a few minutes later the rain eased, eventually yielding to a sheepish sun as I descended into Ostabat at 16:15, an hour and a half later.

Somehow I got there, I don´t know how. But this is the story of it, or at least what I can recall.
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Day in the Life - Condom to Éauze

Just because it seems like the type of thing one does when on such trips. Probably interesting in some fashion, I suppose. It´s a pretty typical day as far as the Chemin after Moissac goes. I also had some photos to go with this but they are now on my laptop and not the camera so will have to wait until I finish walking in November.

So, here we go:
0630 - Alarm goes. Wake up and start packing. Wake Petra (one of my walking companions) who wants to walk with me for 1km to say goodbye.
0700 - Breakfast. Cornflakes (cereal is always a bonus in France... take it when you can get it!), juice, bread w/butter and jams.
0745 - Set off. Petra and I walk through the waking town of Condom. At this hour the buildings have a dawn-blue tinge and a fog is beginning to set in. It gives an apprehensive mood to the beginning of the day´s walk which suits my blue one at losing the last of my companions.
0805 - Petra and I say sad goodbyes and hug, promising to stay in touch (she wants a copy of her interview).
0915 - Reach a bridge that apparently marks the ´1000 kms to go´point. Photo. Stop 500m later for a pee and some chocolate and a pensive cigarette. Water.
1030 - Stop for water and a couple of dried apricots and an apple.
1105 - Reach Montreal sur Gers. Buy a baguette for lunch and fill up water bottles at the village fountain. Surprised by my speed - 16km in a little over three hours.
1150 - Path moves onto what appears to be old railway tracks. It is straight and flat - nice!!
1200 - After a bridge the path bends around and under itself. Immediately it emerges into an avenue of Tolkienian enchantment - an avenue of great trees stretches for a kilometre or so, corn fields to one side, a beech forest to the other . I stand for a couple of minutes in awe. ´Here is a good place for lunch´, I think.
1205 - ... And do. Lunch consists of the baguette, some stinky, washed rind cheese, and a paté du Gascony dArmagnac, followed by some more apricots and chocolate. Very nice, particularly the paté. I eat topless, hoping the midday sun will dry my shirt. As I am finishing another pilgrim (Marc, from Belgium) walks past, wishing me ´Bon apetit!´.
1245 - Set off again. My feet always take 5mins to get used to the shock of walking after lunch, so it´s slow going until then.
1300 - Path bends into some large vineyards... vines full... hmmmmm...
1305 - Hands and face sticky from grape juice...
1315 - Eaten too many grapes and feeling very full. Burp a ´Bonjour´to a farmer who eyes me suspiciously.
1330 - Pass another pilgrim. He is sitting at ease, lying back blowing clouds of smoke drawn from his after-lunch pipe. Bernard is from some little village north of Paris (too fast... didn´t catch it). He has two daughters, both of whom are presently in Australia. He is shocked by how far I have already walked today and goes on to describe himself as an "escargot". I leave feeling happy at the progress of my French.
1415 - Climb a small hill to a very old hameau (hamlet). Fill my water bottles in the cemetery. Right knee hurting inexplicably.
1425 - Path is again on old railway beds. It even passes an old railway station (Bretagne dArmagnac), now a house. Book says I have around 7km to go.
1530 - Stop for water, chocolate, apricots, and an annoyed cigarette. Knee hurts even more, and the whole leg is heavy. Path still on railway bed.
1615 - Longest 7km I have ever walked, felt more like 10km (someone later reports that the book is wrong). Path emerges suddenly into to Éauze. Find the gite, a bed, have a shower and wash my clothes before shopping for tomorrow´s food.
1750 - Sit down in Café de France in the town square for a beer - well earned after 33km walking. Knee now fine (had been for the last km or so). Odd. Lots of writing.
1900 - Dinner with Jean-Claude, Jean-Claude (2) and cross-eyed wife who talks to herself mid-conversation. Have walked to th same towns as these three for 5ish days and shared some good (if limited) conversations and good meals.
2130 - Call Abi. Very Tired.
2145 - Bed.
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Tracks Untraceable

It is a strange undertaking this walk. One moves through country with great closeness and intimacy, yet often it is more felt than seen - the eyes drawn down to the ground searching for suitable footing. The villages through which one passes often seem deserted, and typically no one is seen: a church is looked in, the prettiness of the village admired, and one moves on. Yet unlike the natural landscape – vast and slow to change, at least at this pace – in which such intimacy can be sensed and experienced, the impression, the memory of the towns is, like they are, empty. They appear quite suddenly and are gone – a photo, a drink of water, maybe a pee and then off again. Typically no lingering memory is kept unless something happens there – a conversation, a meal, a petit café, a small moment. The path continues, and we are on it.

We move through a variety of topographies – spiritual, social, culinary… - as thousands, millions have done before us such that our path is now a part of those topographies. Indeed, it is even a part of the physical landscape now. Those millions wove a lace-work of criss-crossing paths across the hills and valleys. Where once barren plateaus and thick forested valleys held only the marks of local life, they now bear a path. Untouched earth and rock has, with the myriad feet setting upon it, become marked as ‘The Chemin’. The climb out of Conques, for example, takes one over great rocks that have smooth-sided footholds worn deep into them, clearly the work of ages.

Physically, spiritually, socially this path has changed, marked, etched the cultural topography and memory. But inevitable change is in both nature and culture, and without the continued passage of thousands along these paths they would yield again to their forces. So it is that we find ourselves, as walkers, as pilgrims, participating not simply in the cultural renewal and maintenance of these paths, but of the physical too. We walk, we move through country and we leave tracks, yet they are nameless. Our individual footprints are washed away by the rain, the memory of our passing is quickly lost amid the deluge, fade through lifetimes. Though individually we are important, crucial even to the continued success of this Way, no trees sigh our names in the wind. Yet what we do leave is the continued cultural momentum of the Chemin and the physical renewal of its beaten path.

It is an anonymous contribution. What we leave is the Path, the Way. We leave tracks, yet they are tracks untraceable.

Written after a long day walking in the timlessly beautiful Causse region.
Thanks to Colin Meloy and friends for the title of this post and its sentiment, and for the best marching song ever – Sons and Daughters.

P.S. Check out the link on the right to a Google-Map showing my daily progress.

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Spots of Time

The reasons behind why people decide to walk the Chemin de Saint Jacques de Compostelle (or the Camino) are diverse. The rich trails of lives, loves, and crises make for moving, often heartbreaking evenings in these quiet corners of France. Eyes sparkle, sometimes hiding with a downward glance; or like the intake before the dive, deep breaths are taken before deep words spoken; and silence… the silence as the words slowly crystallize… the beautiful silence that can only be between people who trust and are prepared to wait respectfully. They are beautiful moments, yet juxtaposed against these star-lit conversations are the often staggeringly beautiful days spent wandering through landscapes both grand and humble. Days where a little rock fall can be as moving as a mighty valley, or where a small leaf covered in droplets glinting like jewels in the morning light can be as enchanting as a green-lit forest heady beneath the midday sun.

Small moments, deep moments; moments define our experience of the world. We remember them like pictures or movies, and call upon them as we have need later in our lives. This is something Wordsworth knew about, despite his often clumsy, childlike articulations of the wonder and beauty of the natural world (which I find quite lovely). Himself a keen walker, old Willy thought that the problem with the industrialised, urbanised world was that, nice as all the ‘stuff’ it produces is, its cities are essentially bad for our souls. Nature, Wordsworth argued, was “sane, pure and permanent” and within it we could find experiences that might help us through amid the hectic bustle and aggro-anonymity of city life. They were small moments, ‘spots of time’ he called them:

There are in our existence spots of time,
That with distinct pre-eminence retain
A renovating virtue, whence – depressed
By false opinion and contentious thought,
Or aught of heavier or more deadly weight,
In trivial occupations, and the round
Of ordinary intercourse – our minds
Are nourished and invisibly repaired;
A virtue, by which pleasure is enhanced,
That penetrates, enables us to mount,
When high, more high, and lifts us up when fallen.

These spots of time, these small, tender moments are what people will carry away with them. It is, they hope, a rejuvenating time – re-creational leave. Perhaps, in moments of despair with upturned head they might spot a small leaf glinting in the light, and remember a small moment in a quiet corner of France.

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Updates!!

Updates coming when I get to St. Jean Pied de Port on the 11th. Stay tuned...

Right now I'm in Arzacq (sp?); lots of bullrings, lots of maize, and buildings that somehow bring to mind Minoan, Aztec, and Chinese architecture. It's rained for two days now so I haven't seen much of the countryside. Still, when I write some new posts on Thursday and Friday I'll tell you all about it.

Cross your fingers, touch wood, and dance a jig so I can (hopefully) have dry socks and boxers tomorrow. Ahhhhhh..... dry underwear...... how I miss thee.
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The Passage of Time

18/09/07
Gollinhac, France

Outside now the daylight has just begun its wane, the sun having set behind the hill this town covers. Gollinhac sits high above the surrounding valley floors, a verticle difference of some 1500ft, and the view from this perch stretches into the tens of kilometres. On the surrounding lower valley walls small villages and hamlets cling, each marked by a small stone church spire - visible, like the golden domed gurdwarras of the Punjab, for miles. I'm reminded again of the organisational sentiment of such physical expressions of faith - 'Where the church spire can be seen, there the parish lies.' Here the parish is everywhere, church spires visible in all directions.
France seems quite actively secular in a thoroughly Catholic way. Yet the cultural influence of Christian history is strong. Here in rural France time is a very regulated commodity. The day begins at the civil hour of 7am with the ringing of the church bells, and people begin to eat their breakfast (7:30 is also quite usual). From after breakfast until midday shops tend to be open (apart from Sundays and Mondays) and businesses run. However, come 12pm the nation, or at least these silvan parts of it, stops. For the hungry traveller caught out by the vicissitudes of the march between towns the period between 12 and 2pm can be dispiritingly cuisineless. Best to have procurred a baguette, saussicon, cheese, and an apple beforehand. A chorus of rumbling bellies often the only sound one hears during these hours. After this the towns burst into activity again anew, and the roads into and out of town can often be a danger to the famished pilgrim, senses dulled by starvation.
As such the day continues until 6:30pm when public life again begins to grind to a halt. At ten to six the church bells ring, calling the faithful, penitent, hungry, or bored to attend to their sins before the most strictly regulated of all the daily events - Dinner. 7pm is, without exception or variation, the time one eats, drinks, and talks around the dinning table. Often, despite typically mid-sized meals, this will last until 9:30pm, at which time people wander off to bed. By 10pm the cobbled streets and alleyways are empty. The townsfolk sleeping, readying themselves for the new day tomorrow.
It is, for a foreign walker (and worker) who speaks little of the language and knows less about the cultural vagaries, a maddening, infuriating way to run the world.
The thing is, I love it!! It makes the working life secondary to family life. The day revolves around the table - breakfast, lunch, and dinner - at which every day all the members of the family sit. School, work, fields, all are secondary to the family table. Everyone returns home.
It is a heirarchy I could live with.
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Avec fromage?? Non!

Alain stared absently at the table. It had been a long day even though we had not covered much distance - heat and hills were the culprits for our exhaustion. I tore off a peice of baguette and picked up a slice of saussicon. This caught Alain's vacant eyes, and he watched expressionless as I folded the bread around the saussage. However, his expression changed from blank interest to incomprehension as I, at the last minute, decided to cut a sliver of camembert off and combine it with my two other ingredients. With the squidging together of bread, saussage, and cheese his vissage spoke of incredulity, and he watched, slack mouthed, as I began to chew. A strange mixture of anger and pity played around his features, and he erupted with "Avec fromage?? Non!..." Shaking his head sorrowfully he lamented something incomprehensible in French and then said, "Thees eez verry Eeenglish. Verry bad."
Such was my first gastronomic faux pas for this trip. I knew the French (and especially Lyonais (sp?) like Alain) were fiercely proud of their saussicon, but I had no idea that it meant there was an embargo on it being combined with cheese. Bread was fine, just not cheese.
My second also involved cheese and was again accompanied by the look of pity and the shaking of heads. It was lunch, and six of us were eating by the Lot river, just after Estaing. I had a baguette, saussicon, camembert, apple, chocolate, and dried figs and, as is the custom, offered all I had to the others before taking any for myself. My first bite was a slice of saussage, but with my second - the cheese - the familiar shaking of heads began. I was politely told that the cheese was to be saved for last.
Of course, there are more than just gastronomic faux pas to be commited. I think I've probably offended a number of people with my gesticulations and poor choice of words (always a problem in a foreign language). But my favourite is funny rather than offensive. We were on the Causse, a very sparesly populated area between Cajarc and Cahors, and it was very cold - something like 5 degrees. I had run inside after attemting to find the village phone booth and after shaking myself commented to those gathered waiting for dinner, "C'est foie ce soir, non?". A brief second of blank faces (one chap even craned his head to see if this actually was the case!) greeted me for a second before the laughter erupted.
The translation of that sentence I'll leave up to you. The word I should have used was 'froid' - they sound very similar.
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Not a Valley, Not a Town, Not a Flower-Filled Field...

So here I am on the Chemin de St Jacques de Compostelle. At the moment I am in Conques, a town famous as a resting point for pilgrims on the way to Santiago, for the relics of St Foy that the church holds, and for the fact that the whole town is so well preserved that, in its entirety it is a historic monument. Like many pilgrims before me I am having a rest day here, partly because it is so absurdly beautiful and partly because I have a sore knee. Such is life!

The days spent walking here from my starting point in Le Puy (on the 11th of September) have been spectacular. The weather, always a matter of discussion and observation for the walker, has been fabulous, with only a day and a half of showers so far. The majority of my footfalls have been under a warm sun amid a spotless azure sky - an Indian summer, as they say.
The country through which the Chemin (path, way, track) passes up to this point has been tough, with many steep valleys into which one must descend (hard on the knees) and then climb out of (hard on the thighs). This is the high plateau of central France, the centre of which, for the Cemin, is Aubrac. This is the land of high-country beef, lentils, and aligot (a form of mashed potato so crammed with cheese that it can often be stretched like string). The Way itself makes its way through this land, passing by little towns (never more than 4000 ppl), that often have local gastronomic delicacies. I can now see why the French guide to the Chemin is Called Miam Miam, Do Do - loosely translated as Eat eat, Sleep sleep. For many of the natives this is more than a religio-cultural exercise, it is a gastronimic Tour de France!
However, the thoughtful quiet of the magnificent landscape that it is a part of more than make up for the small pains to one's legs. Even in just nine days of walking the occassions upon which I have stopped to look in amazement and chuckle, disbelieveing that this is my work-life, have been too numerous to count. But in the scheme of the project it makes quite some sense, at least in a post-Romanticism world.

Spending these days walking along side green pastures, the lazy ringing of the cow's bells and the crunch of foot and staff often the only sounds in my ears, I am reminded of the words of poet Thomas Gray who, after a day's walk in the Swiss Alps, wrote: "I do not remember to have gone ten paces without an exclamation that there was no restraining. Not a precipice, not a torrent, not a cliff, but is pregnant with religion and poetry." Gray was in search of the sublime in nature, places that stir the emotions beyond the adequacy of single words to describe. How do you put into words the emotion evoked by a valley, a town on a facing hillside, a field? A loose jumble of them, our usual response, is typically only partially adequate. These are places we call sublime.
But cows and aligot aside, I can confidantly say that this is a wonderful experience. Not a valley, not a town, not a flower-filled field goes by without my registering their sublime beauty, and my luck and privilege at being able to pass them by as a pélerin (pilgrim), an ethnographer (of sorts), and a lover of the world. In this event-space I am at home.
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In the Garden of England

I wrote this first paragraph sitting in the car from Heathrow:

24/08/07

My word I love this England!! The depressed grey skies, steadfast and determined; the trees decked in their summer finery, crowded with rich green leaves that each clamber for a touch of the slivers of sunlight that march across the countryside from time to time; the rows of town houses, a coverlet of moss on each roof and many windowed so that the occupants (like the trees) can catch whatever sunlight beams; and the flat, low-rise city of London, without need for brash skyscraper developments (though they are growing in number), whose legend and majesty comes from the long trodden earth.

Back to the future:

That little passage doesn't really have a point, but I like the way it manifests my thoughts about England as I 'hit the ground', so to speak. I always get that feeling when I arrive here. It's like coming home, even the first time I arrived here I felt that strange skipping of the heart, the keen intake of breath, the instinctive deep love of the land. But I can't really discover why without retreating to some anachronistic notion of 'mother country', at least for that first instance.

Now, however, I feel like there is a relationship. I have inhabited this land, and now it inhabits me. And maybe that's how it is for many of the places we visit, or at least those we fall in love with. There is a bond, an almost physical bond with the heart. When we do feel a love for a place we never leave, and it never leaves us. I remember sitting in the aircraft climbing out of Delhi and having the same sense of physical loss or sadness - I felt I was leaving a part of myself behind. But it was also a pain of distance, of absence. I suppose that's why the destruction of a place (through war, economy, drought, or tourism) can be so traumatic for those who have only visited, as well as for the inhabitants. Their's is the pain of a small heartstring riven.

So when I come back here I am, in quite an emotional sense, coming home - at least to a part of me. It is an emotional home because I get it, I understand it in ways that I can't describe (and that I don't really understand, if that makes any sense). But also, because England inhabits me, the relationship is two way. It is a home because it gets me. In some small, incomprehensible way England understands me.

Of course, you can't really escape the fact that this is simply a beautiful country. Cobbled roadways winding through a monopoly board of street names and emerging onto green fields filled with natives out to catch the fleeting rays. The many armed tube, double-decker busses, and 'the knowledge'. Jellied eels, cheshire cheese, and beer served without extraneous carbon dioxide... oh I love this England.

But I think I might defer to Kipling to close (from The Glory of the Garden):

Our England is a garden that is full of stately views,

Of borders, beds and shrubberies and lawns and avenues,

With statues on the terraces and peacocks strutting by,

But the Glory of the Garden lies in more than meets the eye.

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In New York

New York, New York. The city so nice they named it twice!! Manhattan is the other name, and while the city may be worthy of many more, the two words - New York - carry such such a history of ideas and rich connotation that no others are necessary. It simply is one of the great cities of the world, and one in which I think I could live for a time (and for any NY Uni's I'll be accepting job and fellowship offers from late 2008:-)).
The city was rainy and grey for the first 24 hours, which in the absence of a cold sunny day is just right for wandering and exploring. Walking through steam coming out of subway vents, drinking in the distinct NY smell of steam, hot underground air, metal loaded with electricity (subway?), rubber slightly burning (?), and litter, and gazing in awe at the waves of high-rise life that appear to be about to crash onto Central Park all made me wish for a longer stay. Next time...



The journey here was a cause for much thought. As I sat in LAX waiting for our connecting flight here, I was surprised to find myself reeling from culture shock, surprisingly similar to that which I felt upon arriving in India. Flying over the wide expanse of the continental United States I was again reminded that this is a vast and mighty nation. Town after town, city after city rolls by underneath, ceaselessly. Like India there are people everywhere, though of course not with the same density as found on the subcontinent. But making my way through the somewhat chaotic maze of LAX I found some sharp reminders, nonetheless. Here, again, I was seeing hundreds of people employed in roles that seem unnecessary or in numbers that seem unjustified: baggage handlers move bags often less than one foot, non-security 'security guards' man numerous 'check points' with such abrupt rudeness I laughed out loud at one point (all they were doing was looking at boarding passes a job the actual security guards also did), while lots of official looking people sit around chatting. Adding to the Indian likeness was the presence of taxi touts at JFK airport, each jovially vying for the newly arrived's custom. Abi said one even chuckled and mimicked my "No thanks, mate. Cheers." as I walked by, which I thought was a nice piece of cultural interaction on my behalf, albeit unconscious.
This, in combination with the saccharine advertisements, rampant commercialism, language differences, and often vastly different customs results in the feeling of being dropped in a wholly different culture. Admittedly there are similarities, such as the bulk of the language and the Christianity-based ethico-political systems, but the culture shock is well and truly there. Yet while some might bemoan such things - the most visible and aspects of U.S. culture - I take great personal and not un-selfish joy in them. The thing is, they make me happy. Happy that U.S. culture isn't so dominating (as some contend) that there is nothing different left in the world; happy that I am confused by its brash confidence, lack of a public health philosophy, or philanthropic drive; and happy that there is a U.S.A. out there that I don't know about. But mostly I'm happy that I want to know about it, that my confusion and lack of knowledge only makes me want to know more and explore this land and these people. Hopefully I can do this one day with more depth and breadth than two and a half days allow.

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7 Days - Reprise

So, six months later I am again seven days away from departing on another research adventure. In seven days we set off for London (with a three day stopover in New York), and on September the 9th I fly to Lyon. I should begin walking the Camino de Santiago de Compostela (chemin de Compostelle in French) from Le Puy on the 11th of September.

Much has changed since I wrote the first entry of this blog (the first '7 Days' post), and yet much remains the same. I hold many of the same feelings about my upcoming research. I am apprehensive about my body (it suffered so in India) and the endurance test it is about to undergo. The Camino from Le Puy to Santiago is over 1500km, which really is a hell of a long way to walk. Yet, as before I feel elated that I am about to, again, get to do something long in the dreaming and planning. I'm nervous that I won't find enough people to interview, though that is tempered somewhat by the experience I gained in India, particularly the willingness most people had towards participating in my project. And, I'm curious about my own emotional journey on the Camino. It, like India, has a reputation for challenging its patrons in many often unforeseen ways. I look forward to meeting them.

And now for another wanky symbolic photo:


My boots so I can walk, guidebooks so I can find the way, my notebook and pen to try and capture to torrential flow of ideas that comes with fieldwork, and my voice recorder to forever capture those magic moments of expression from other pilgrims. There is no lightbulb this time. India taught me that they are given me by those I speak with (or they at least let me write in their light for a time). And I know now that I don't need my glasses to see.
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Mes Chaussures de Marche sont Mortes!

Oh my melancholy companions! We have seen much together. In many ways my adventures have been yours, for you were with me always. Without complaint you carried your share of the load and walked with me every step. The riverbeds and jungles of Thailand bothered you not. The ancient, muddy pathways and bitter cold of Athos you swept over without fuss. The rakish Rocky Mountains and the mighty Himalayas you trod with confidence. In cities we were masters together also. The towering jungles of New York, the sprawling urban London, the sun-drenched streets of Sydney all passed beneath you. You have left footprints in the earth, and in my memory they will never fade.

Yes, it is true, my boots have died. I love them like a part of my body. (cue mournful music)

My poor old boots! I am of half a mind to take you with me to the Camino and leave you there, perched in some high place to forever watch the comings and goings over the track you never got to walk with me.

Of course, this leaves me just over a month to break in my new pair - the solidly built Italian Scarpa boot.

There they are, the old and the new. To my new companions, may our adventures together be as long and as varied as your predecessor's. You have much to live up to, but I have great confidence in you.

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On the Beauty of Rubbish

Rubbish is beautiful. The things we leave in our bins reveal parts of our identity - our desires, our needs, our dislikes. The contents of our rubbish are a collage of our passing. Our rubbish is a record of our existence in the physical universe. Maybe that's why we have become so enamoured of the cycle of consumerism - desire, acquisition, use, disillusionment, renewed desire (for something else), discard - our consumption marks us as 'good', constantly renewed, and 'normal', while our regurgitation cleanses us of the 'bad' used materials. Very rarely do we fully digest something.
Our debris are little status tracks we leave in the sand, quickly blown over, but for those who witnessed, an insight. We become immortal, in our minds, through our rubbish, little piles like monuments. The tracks disappear (although Antiques Roadshow looks hard for them) but the possessions are our relics. We touched them, wore them, loved them (however briefly) and they will be forever imbued with 'us'.
But who actually believes that? Do you, when you are alone in the dark, breathe a sigh of relief borne of the knowledge, should small meteorite plunge through the atmosphere and punch a hole in your ceiling before ending your life as you lie in bed dreaming of that perfect side-table, that your jetsam will sing your song while being cast, like ashes in the wind, amongst the garbage tips and second-hand stores? And besides, when we throw things away they move from the sacred to the profane. We hate our rubbish. That's why we give it to the poor or to the earth, because we hate them too.
But aren't we missing something? Isn't there some great insight to be had, a compassion felt, or some sliver of the universe to be found in the rubbish tips, the second-hand stores, the dirty alleyways? Those places are libraries of our lives; here a bridesmaid's dress, cast off with bitter tears; there a little stereo, given freely after a Christmas bonus makes room for a new, bigger one; here a set of clothes too big now for the former owner (they jog everyday); there an Oxford Dictionary, the final evictee from the life of a boy once in love with words and now scrabbling for a teaspoon of smack. Such places are uncompromising and raw, and beautiful, so beautiful. Little editing has been done, and the usual sanitising we are subject too is gone. Every type of story is there, but they don't cry out "Here! Me! Look at me!" (like this blog does). The objects are mute, and their silence prompts curiosity - Who...? Why...? For a moment we ask, we step outside ourselves and ask, and that is why rubbish is beautiful.
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More Random Pictures

Time for some more pictures to fill in the time before leaving for Europe. A few people have complimented me on the last lot (being polite, no doubt). I think this set will convince you all that I have now surpassed the likes of Cartier-Bresson and Ansel Adams, amateurs that they were.

Exit. Korepun, Hunter Valley, 14/07/07. (18-55mm@55mm, ISO100, f9.0, shutter 1/320s)


Songlines. Palmer & Foley Streets, Darlinghurst, 19/07/07. (28-105mm@50mm, ISO100, f22, shutter 30s)


Tides of Eve. Korepun, Hunter Valley, 14/07/07. (18-55mm@53mm, ISO100, f9.0, shutter 1.6s)


And just for Jetti:
Stop. Yellow Kangaroo Paw (Anigozanthos flavidus), Korepun, Hunter Valley, 14/07/07. (18-55mm@55mm, ISO100, f5.6, shutter 1/320s)

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Royston George Booker

I am very, very happy to announce that I have been awarded the 2007 Royston George Booker Scholarship to assist with my field research for my PhD. As a bit of background, the scholarship was established by R.G. Booker, a retired Army Officer, in 1991 and is awarded to postgraduate (FT) students to undertake research overseas for their degree. While there are no specific outcomes required by the scholarship, I feel like I should honour the it and its benefactor for their generosity. Not only is it a great privilege to be doing a project like this, but to be recognised for my achievements and given assistance for it is truly humbling. For me, travelling the world to speak with people about their journeys is a dream come true. Many were the times during my last trip, to India, when I sat back and marvelled that what I was doing was at the same time 'work' and 'personal interest'. In fact, the project I am doing is exactly what I want to be doing, what I would want to do if I was doing something else, and what I would do if otherwise unoccupied. It is a great honour.

So, to R.G. Booker and family, and the University of Sydney, thank you. I shall do my best.
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Conferences and Conversations

The weekend before last saw me present my research findings from India at the Australian Association for the Study of Religions annual conference in Melbourne. Academic conferences are always fun, and a wintry Melbourne was an ideal setting for hearing about such diverse topics as teenage witches, media bias against UFO groups, the ordination of Buddhist nuns in Thailand, and the use of secular fiction as religious text (plus many more cool papers). If you're into all things religious a conference is a pretty cool way to get a taste for what's going on. It's much nicer than having to plough through everyone's journal publications (which you wouldn't read anyway because you don't have the time to read anything much outside your little niche).

I'm pretty happy with how my chapter is coming, even though I stumbled upon a massive structural shift while in Melbourne (that will require a re-write). The main thing I want to get across is the diversity of reasons with which people approach spiritual activities in India. I think it reflects the diversity we find in people's spirituality at home, which is essentially a 'moral' or metaphor I want to flesh out in the thesis. I tihnk the new structure will show this much more effectively.

Seeing as I was to be in Melbourne I decided to spend some time with my brother, Pip. Many long chats about life, the universe, and German monks drinking lots of Bock were had, and it helped remind me of the joy of family and the intimacy of siblings. You can't choose them, but love 'em or hate 'em your family know your story, and have a pretty good idea about what makes you tick. They know your history because they were there. They have seen the blood, the tears, and the warts and (if your are lucky, as I am) they don't care, they just love you. It is a devastatingly comforting knowledge. We can become so locked in our consumer hedonism, so lost in our cycles of dissatisfaction with life and self-absorbed whining that we can forget there are people out there who actually care enough to sit down and listen, no matter what is said. Those moments - by river banks, on mountain tops, at cafes, in cars - when simple, raw words are spoken and heard are magical. When it's family doing the listening you feel like your roots are getting a massage; all the gooey worms, moist soil, and gnarled fibres are being shaken and oxygenated. Those moments give you new life.

Finally, for any TZU fans out there here are a couple of exciting pictures:

Pip and Corey laying down a demo track for the next TZU album. Joel's studio, 11/07/07. (18-55mm@25mm, 0.3sec, f4.0, ISO800)



Lyrics aborning, from Pip to paper, through lips they're laid down. Joel's studio during a writing session, 11/07/07. (18-55mm@33mm, 1/13sec, f4.5, ISO1600)
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For the Returning

For the Returning

You will return. This will frighten you.
Don't be afraid of getting bored. Don't be afraid of tasting vanilla when for so long you've bathed in magical spices. Even vanilla has a smokey sweetness that can mystify the tongue.
Don't be afraid of feeling alone amongst your friends, a stranger at home. You will know them by their qualities. You have always known them.
It's true though, you can never go home. Not to the home that was before. Now there is a new home, and it will take you time to feel comfortable after moving in.
Yes, the same rooms will be there, but their meaning has changed. That's all.
Sometimes you will dance in far away fields, only to find yourself returned with a jolt to the cafe, the bus seat, the party, and you will feel lost.
This will frighten you. But do not let it. Others will always dance with you.

Inspired by AM, EB, LG, JL, and AV.
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Two Months

So it's probably a touch early, but I thought that an update on the next fieldwork trip was in order. Two months from today, on August 20th, I fly to London (via NYC!) then later to France to begin walking the Camino de Santiago de Compostela, interviewing people as I amble. It's a pretty exciting prospect, firstly because walking the Camino is something I have wanted to do for years, and secondly because my fieldwork in India was so successful and I can't wait to get to do more.

Speaking of which, I'm now in the final stages of writing up the India chapter of my thesis. It's a tricky assignment, and I think the final product will reflect the personal nature of the trip. It looks like it will be a heady mix of first person accounts and rich description with smatterings of academic theory thrown in as spice. There are echoes of de Botton and Dalrymple, and some playfully irreverent stuff in the style of Tim Moore, all done in a form inspired by Bruce Scates (his book on Gallipoli pilgrims was the final inspiration for me to go back to Uni to do this). In the end, I hope it says something meaningful and useful to some other people, but mostly I'm just happy to be writing it at last.

This makes me extra excited at the prospect of getting onto the Camino. It won't be like India at all, but in a strange way it will be. The people I meet (and have already started to meet at pilgrim meetings here ) will make it another enlightening and enriching experience. Best of all, it's another chance for me to do what I love and to be able to say something about it. I can't wait.
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Some Random Pictures

In the absence of something meaningful to say (some would argue I am in this state perpetually) here are some photos from around here. They were all taken on my shiny new DSLR (yay!).

Here we start with an nice photo of a cup.
Still life anyone? (18-55mm@38mm, 1/50, f5.0, ISO400. Saturation)

Shafts of Light (18-55mm@55mm, 1/13, f5.6, ISO100. Tones, saturation. Centennial Park, 06/06/07.)

The Change (18-55mm@24mm, 1/50, f7.1, ISO800. Tones, saturation. Centennial Park, 06/06/07. I was trying to capture two things with this. Firstly, the sense of slow but constant change inherent in seasonal movements, and secondly, the introspective beauty of autumn. When I saw the bench sitting under this tree I felt it was the link that expressed both of those things - To sit and watch the wind and trees play, to sit and contemplate the beauty of the change, these are childhood dreams)

Buses 3 (18-55mm@54mm, 1/25, f18, ISO100. Saturation)

Foley Street (18-55mm@18mm, 1/160, f3.5, ISO100. Sepia)

Drops (18-55mm@38mm, 1/100, f5, ISO1600. We've had some pretty spectacular and devastating storms here for about a week. The Hunter Valley (just north of Sydney) in particular has been subjected to some wild weather. Sitting on my balcony, these are the only drops of it that I caught).

Wet-footed Abandon (18-55mm@18mm, 1/8, f4, ISO400. Curves. 7am, 10/06/07, Palmer St., Darlinghurst. The rain finally stopped on Saturday, and Sunday morning I went to meet Pip for a coffee and a chorizo roll. On the way I met this couple - leather shoes and fluffy slippers. Somehow they had found each other amid the deluge, their masters perhaps leaving them for more free-footed fields).

Reading Corner. (18-55mm@25mm, 0.5, f7.1, ISO200. Saturation)























That's it for now.
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Travelling for Work

A conversation last weekend with a good friend about the strains of travelling for work got me thinking about the realities of life for the working traveller. It seems every other travel writer puts out at least one article bemoaning the life of the working traveller, and I certainly know many people who travel for work who have grown to loathe it. Long days, stressful meetings, soulless hotel rooms, vacant eyes at buffet breakfasts. Who wants it? It's work concentrate, mainly because travelling for work often means no time off at all.
My friend is working on a film, and the long location shoots in northern Australia will take her away from her partner and home for a number of months. Apart from being an incredible professional challenge it is a tremendous personal one also. How do you nurture friendships and maintain a relationship over such distance?
I feel like I know a little of that challenge, and I would say there are three main aspects to it, the latter two of which branch off the first; namely time. Time away from a partner can be a challenge in any case. After all, this is the person you have elected to spend your life with (or at least this part of it), so why would you want to have some of that time apart anyway? Time away from them is time inevitably spent wishing they were there with you. But, what is especially apparent where travel is involved is how that time can affect you. Time away spent travelling typically rich in experiences that force changes and growth, while time in a relationship is time changing and growing together. Foreseeably, there could be a point at which two people simply grow apart, a terrible prospect for anyone in a successful relationship.
The second aspect is people. On the road, working away from home, you tend to meet lots of new people. Ideally this shouldn't be a challenge, but I think as social animals it is inevitable that it will be. We are, at least in part, a product of those we surround ourselves with. If, in regards to food, you are what you eat, then I think that you are what you eat socially too. All the new people you meet influence and affect you. After travel people often comment on the change in the traveller, and I think the people they travelled with have a large part in that.
Finally, the pattern of the posts on this blog give testament to the pace at which life travels when on the road. February and March (my time in India) are packed with posts, while April had a measly two. It's partly the nature of the work, and partly the nature of the experience. Work may be all day every day, but so are the other bits. Away from the regular routines of home we are free to fill the spaces with whatever we like. Experienced work travellers try to make their travel life as similar to their home life as possible, incorporating 'off' times in front of the TV or reading and the like. But that can get pretty boring when you are on your own, and so we seek some social comfort, and end up in cafes, bars, or restaurants with others (friends, collegues, strangers all) trading silly stories. Or we find ourselves sitting by a fire or walking by the ocean sharing a moment. Everyday a new experience, every feeling heightened by stress, loneliness, happiness; just heightened.
Add to all this the combined emotional stress of work and actually being away from home and one's partner, and the results can be intense, the growth or change (I'm not sure if those are different) often uncomfortable. So maybe the loathing is how some cope. By loathing the experience they reinforce the comfort, safety, and strength of home and their partner. But let's not forget the good bits too. After all, it is travel paid for by someone else (hopefully), and if you're lucky there will be some really cool places and people thrown in the package too. This rabbit thinks that the best option is just to go with it and enjoy the ride (oh yes! I'm such a hippy), knowing that it will eventually end at the place/person you most love. Pretty good ride, really.
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Where to next?

Now that my ramblings about India are over, at least for this blog, the question is what's next? My next fieldwork trip will begin in late August when I head to Europe to walk the Camino de Santiago de Compostela, interviewing people as I go. But that is five months from now, so I need something to fill in the time here. I was thinking I could just continue with the nonsensical ramblings as they come to me, perhaps some photo collages of my area of Sydney (hmmm that would give me a chance to get artistically wanky again... I like it!), or just nothing at all. Maybe some of you rabid blog fans out there can tell me your preferences (gets ready for one response from grandma).

In any case, this blog will continue to exist. So don't be strangers.



Self portrait: Balcony writing (aka attempt to be cool 5)
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On Returning: Part 2

I don't pretend to understand the workings of the heart or mind. My own seem so unfathomable that what I might say about others' would seem guesswork. Although this is not to say that I don't pretend to try to understand the workings of others' minds and hearts. That is my job after all. What I feel I can say about myself is that while my heart and mind might sometimes broadcast a thousand channels at once, I can only seem to write about a few of them at a time. So I thought this entry could focus on some of the more beautiful aspects of the return from travel.
Three weeks after returning I finally feel like I am home. What I have returned with are memories, experiences, insights, and a new appreciation of familiarity and of small moments. I sit here on my balcony sipping black tea (some things you can't let go of), the music from my CD player competing with the street noise below. Every now and then, as I listen, I find myself somewhere else as a tune that was on my MP3 player comes on. Suddenly I am no longer on my balcony but in a restaurant in Rishikesh flicking through the TZU catalogue to find something Silfan might like; or I'm half asleep in a taxi watching the first rosy tips of dawns fingers touch the hills and tree tops sliding by while listening to Bron-Yr-Aur after giving Jess the first listen; or I'm alone on the balcony at Manu House (hi Manu!!) listening to Boards of Canada while the sun comes into the Bhagsu valley, like some mighty god.
These tunes, and so many others, are now rich with memory for me. Their music now blends with that of my own memory and the emotions associated with it, playing and resonating their own piercing and beautiful harmonics. You can't purchase the ability to have such reactions to what are essentially groupings of tonal sequences with the odd bit of language thrown in, but I'm so glad to have them. They are sonic landscapes of emotion for me, deeper and more meaningful than they otherwise could have been.
I find I have a similar reaction when I look at my photos. They speak of moments more than of places; a sunny morning's walk to Swarg Ashram with a beautiful human being from Australia to get some cash from the ATM; haggling for a good price for a cycle rickshaw and then realising just how exposed one is when on the back of one in Delhi; or a sun drenched afternoon in Bhagsu sharing a goodbye meal with a wonderful man from Norway. The pictures take me back to the point of view they portray. When I look at them I am again behind the lens, feeling again the breeze or the rain, or smelling dinner in the kitchen, hearing the voices of friends around me. I'm so thankful for such technology (you really see why photography took off as it did) for the way it helps me to access these memories in that way. Now that I'm home I often feel more touched by the small moments and random images that I captured than I was at the time. Now I see their deeper meaning and influence on me.
But I think it is home itself that I find most beautiful and enchanting. It may seem odd in contrast but I can't get over the peace of quiet. I find it so fascinating, and in a charming way quite amusing, that four million of us can live in this city in such comparative silence (although I write this to the music of some verbal disagreement occurring on the street, including the magically Australian line, "get out of here ya fuckin' cunt" - how's the serenity!). Walking through the Sydney streets I am constantly reminded, and flawed I suppose, by what an astoundingly beautiful city it is. I don't mean the CBD per se, but the town-housed and terraced tree-lined streets that wind around the little hills and ridges of the suburbs. The aspect is sunny and spacious, the air is clean(ish), the temperature pleasant, but mostly it's the people I'm in love with. But it's strange... I think of Sydney as a city obsessed with trends and fashion, with money and property, and generally getting ahead of other Sydneysiders. But walking around town I mostly see people enjoying life in whatever way they can. I'm not really sure what to make of that contradiction...
The street noise, the bats in the evening, the heated arguments outside Oxford St clubs, the kids playing in the park. These are things familiar to my soul. I've lived here long enough to be able to know them inside myself. But that they are familiar and known makes me happy (again the contrast). I find now, after returning, that the familiar is really not that familiar after all. It is actually full of romance and mystery. Who are the people that emerge from those townhouses to go to work every morning? How do they do life? Who are these strangers? Where do they come from, and to where do they go? Who is the old woman across the road that I see walking her two tiny dogs everyday? What are her stories of life, of pain, of love? I guess I don't see repetition now so much as I see uniqueness. Maybe that's the benefit of getting to interview so many great people, I'm not sure. So I now find myself asking again, and that makes me happy (sigh of thanks).
So I guess the best thing about coming home is seeing and living again the poetry of everyday life.

I'm home :-)
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On Returning

Again, this is really more of a series of thoughts than a cohesive essay. It doesn't attempt to paint the whole picture. As a result it can appear somewhat depressing, especially to loved ones.
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I have previously said that travelling alone is one of the hardest things one can do. But of that experience the return home is probably the most difficult. The unfamiliar world the traveller moves in is one full of surprises, excitement, and challenge. One is forced to become a 'new' person, of sorts, in order to deal with this. Becoming good at it is enriching for the soul and teaches you a great deal about your self. In a sense these challenges and surprises are mirrors held in front of your face, and the image written upon them one only you can confront. For that travel period it becomes the way of life - meeting challenges and confronting fears.
The return to 'normality' thus becomes the greatest challenge, for suddenly all is predictable, safe, familiar, and known: all is known, or appears to be, and that knowledge is terrifying. "Is this all there is", we ask? We see our relationships and the familiar patterns of life and all we see is predictability. In our home culture we cringe at those aspects we saw reflected while on the road and that we so adamantly rejected. For a brief time all we see are these apparent negatives. Our disappointment at the shattered illusion of home we call 'culture shock', and it is remarkably similar to that we felt upon leaving home. Yet, somehow this shock cuts deeper.
How is it that the beautiful routines of home can seem dull and unlovely? We strive for them so hard in normal life, but six weeks with a backpack in India and we feel like home is flawed; the cool morning breeze isn't quite as refreshing as the katabatic wind off the Himalayas, the clean, empty, and well organised streets appear lifeless to eyes and ears now used to chaos, shit, and crowds, and the tones of home somehow sound less cheerful, less musical. It's illogical, but we still feel it.
I suspect in my own case part of this has to do with a sense of purpose. In India I was the researcher, the intrepid social explorer (oh how mighty our visions of ourselves are). There was no ambiguity in my mission. But at home ambiguity returns - am I a researcher, a writer, a husband, a friend, a citizen...? The multitude of roles competing for our attention results in feeling like we are being pulled in every direction at once, and we feel torn inside.
However, this makes me think that what we are really experiencing is a reflection of the more general phenomenon of change. To leave home and travel, whether for work or pleasure, requires a shift in being, to some degree. At home one is one's normal self, absorbed in the vicissitudes and complexities of everyday life. Yet, when we travel this state of being is not appropriate most of the time and a new state must be inhabited, like a new set of clothes. Thus we become the traveller version of ourselves. We are the same, and yet we feel ourselves changed in the experience, as well as by it. The traveller us might even appear to be a radically different person to that we thought we knew at home; perhaps more patient, more assertive, less emotionally unstable, or with less fear.
The return home thus requires the shedding of the state of being, and like any change it can be traumatic, especially as those 'new' aspects we have come to love may have to be discarded as inappropriate in our home context. Our linear conception of historical progression (at least in the Western cultural milieu) requires that we abandon that which we have left behind as useless. Yet when we return we say we 'pick up where we left off', as if somehow time stood still while we were away. We put on again our old clothes and the fit simply feels wrong. Our old home state of being hasn't changed, and as a result we feel dirty in it. "Surely I'm not unchanged", we plead, "surely these experiences have made me a better person?" Yet somehow, for a while at least, we fail to see it.
Thankfully, of course, this is the illusion that ontic change creates. There can be no experience without change. Indeed, some have said that the only constant is change itself. Returning home and donning our old clothes we see the familiar wrinkles and stains, feel the tears and patches, and it takes a while for our changed, new self to work them flat and be comfortable again. And thus we realise finally that we are indeed changed: the same but different.
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India - Last Impressions

My final impressions of India are a cascade of brief images drawn from a last minute taxi ride to Delhi. As it is I quite like that this turned out to be the case as the car window is a much more socially intimate frame than the aeroplane's, which was to have been my mode of transport (much as I love flying). As it was a bank of storm activity hanging around the Himalayas resulted in my flight being at first delayed, then on (mad rush to the airport), delayed again, then diverted to Chandigarh half-way to Gaggal airport (where I was waiting), before finally being cancelled. So back to McLeod Ganj I went in search of my refund as no cash was kept at the airport. The upside of this was that I got to say a second goodbye to my friends there, especially Jess who had been such a rock for me as well as a professional inspiration. My host, Manu, was also delighted and continued with the assertion, which he had made earlier in the morning, that this was a sign from the god Indra that I shouldn't leave.
I was touched that the gods of India, particularly Indra, thought me so important that they sent a mighty hail and thunderstorm to McLeod Ganj to mark my eventual departure at 4pm. They didn't want me to leave, and in an odd but very real way neither did I. The strange thing is that I think a part of me never will. As I sit here in seat 19F on Jet Airways flight 9W018 to Singapore, staring at the hazy earth falling away below, I know it. When the wheels separated from the ground I felt a part of me was left behind. It came as a shot of adrenaline and a nostalgic twinge, but it felt like losing something physical too. Strange... (ed. although I did leave 9kgs of me there... perhaps that was it).
The taxi to Delhi last night (20th-21st) was fitting as it provided a number of pseudo bookends. As we descended from the mountains into the plains we drove through some sparsely populated areas, and as the sun set and the blue-grey twilight set in I could see the few dwellings lit withe the warm orange glow of fire. I was struck by how 'simple' most Indian's lives are. Many, perhaps most, work, eat, and sleep without much else to occupy/distract them (though this sounds patronising now I write it here). For a while I meditated on the over complication of life that we in the West seem so bent on. I can't think of an answer as to why, but I suspect it is bound up with an excess of leisure time and lack of cultural and social tools with which to deal with it. As we drove out of the storm the light washing over us turned purple. We sped through the occasional patch of drizzle here and there, and I was reminded of the weather on the 11th of February that had heralded my arrival to this incredible country. Though only five weeks ago it seems like an age since I was last here. Passing through Delhi was just as I remembered it - dirty, ugly, delapidated, neglected, and chaotic in every sense. In other words, a shithole, though one that has a certain charm, at least to me (perhaps because it was my first Indian experience). I'm not in a hurry to come back to Delhi. India itself is another matter.
Looking out the window now I am struck, again, by the pollution. It lies thick over the land, filling the air all the way up to our altitude of some 30,000ft. The rubbish in the streets, the beautiful hills, and the dancing streams comes to mind now too. In the taxi I had witnessed the nightly ritual by the local 'garbos' - head round to any bins and simply dump the rubbish therein right onto the street so that cows, dogs, and the approaching rain can take care of it. It mars the beauty of the land - urban and rural. But the problem is at least two-fold. On the one hand there simply isn't the waste processing infrastructure in place such as we have in Australia (problematic as it is). On the other, the Indian conception of rubbish is much less symbolic and and very much more functional than our own. We view objects as taking on a negative status when they are assigned as rubbish - they suddenly become ugly, dirty (even if nothing has changed), polluting, and off-putting. Thus, they retain a power over us. This shift in the status of being of objects (from 'something' to 'rubbish') simply doesn't occur in Indian thought. Things just lose their positive function and so cease to be of use or care. Thus, they have no power. As a result, chip packets, bottles, food scraps, etc, are just dropped wherever the person happens to be when the functionality ceases. I was greatly surprised by this, particularly at Rishikesh. There you often see people dropping their recently emptied chip packets or the like right into the river they had just minutes before been sanctifying. Not just any river, mind you, but the holy Ganges... the most holy and sacred river in Indic religion. I'm not sure what the solution is. It is certainly a problem, as there can be no denying that rubbish can pollute, making water foul or earth poisoned. But whatever it turns out to be it will firstly require some challenging logistical and cultural change.
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I didn't get any photos of it, stupidly, but when younger Indian males hang out they often hold hands, or walk arm in arm. I found it a quaint, charming, and endearing cultural quirk when I first arrived. No doubt it is a source for numerous 'poofter' jokes from some foreigners, but what it really signifies is the playful and affectionate culture of friendship that Indian males share (I can't speak for females as I barely spoke to any). I was luck enough to be included a few times in this platonic form of male intimacy. I'm not quite sure why, or how, but often I would find myself standing in one of my regular cafes with a staff member holding my hand or with his arm around me, telling me some sweet joke, or about his girlfriend, or about what a 'handsome man' I was with 'such a beautiful smile' (their words). It was so genuine and touching, so lovely.
Sadly there is also the other less endearing aspect of Indian male culture - sexual discrimination. As a solo male traveller you could probably miss it if you had your eyes closed, but having travelled with someone passionate about it I was able to gain a thought provoking glimpse into what it is like for female Western travellers in India. Whether it's being stared at hungrily, photographed, tailed by a car full of men, or even running in fear, life for the solo female traveller in India shows up, in harsh light, the undercurrent of discrimination present in the culture. However, unlike the treatment of rubbish the treatment of female travellers has nothing to do with ontology. Rather, as Jess insightfully pointed out, it is simply because the men think they can get away with it. Make a scene and the normal social taboos kick in. Still, it really shits me.
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As far as spiritual tourism to India goes, things are just as I suspected and vastly different. The other day, while marking the departure of Roy (Norwegian anthropologist doing fieldwork in Bhagsu), Jess asked me if the trip had been worth it. The answer was easy - YES! I've learnt more in these six weeks than a decade, probably a lifetime, in the library could have yielded. As I mentioned in my final post about Rishikesh there is much more socially positive work being done here than I would have previously given credit for. There is also much more certainty; about morality, politics, cosmology, but most interestingly about the status of the self: impermanent and prone to error or distraction, but fundamentally good, pure, and capable of great love and compassion. Pessimists there are few, conspiracy theorists some, but amongst the spiritual tourists of India optimism, through the self for humanity, sings loudest. This is the notion that while there is lots of work to be done with the human race it begins with the individual. Only by changing and improving one's self can there be any long-term hope for the lot of us. So, while critics may say that the spiritual tourists of India are self-absorbed, individualist consumers whose only actual focus is themselves, the real issue is much deeper and broader. It certainly can be labelled individualism, but more correctly what is to be seen in India amongst spiritual tourists is a form of individualism that is a work based optimism founded in the power of personal agency and realisation (a little too Rogerian perhaps) for the human community.
That is a most comforting thought, is it not? Though, perhaps I wouldn't have believed it had I not seen it with my own eyes. ;-)
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Parting Thoughts on McLeod Ganj/Dharamsala

In my first post on McLeod Ganj I spoke about the contrast in what we might call tourist demography or type between here and Rishikesh. When I was writing it (and my fieldnotes) I was very conscious that much of what I was saying was of a comparative tone; 'Rishikesh was like so, but McLeod Ganj is not'. I was also conscious that much of what I was writing had a faintly negative tone to it. This was intentional as it was what I was seeing and feeling, but I think in parting I would like to concentrate upon some of the more positive aspects.
The thing that really struck me was the draw the Dalai Lama has, not so much as a 'thing' you come and see, but as a person you come and hear from, or more specifically, hear teachings from. Although, for many the opportunity to see up close someone who, for them, is an inspiring and spiritually wise figure was also significant. In fact, every tourist I met had come to McLeod Ganj to either hear or see the Dalai Lama, in some form or another. I think this says a few things about spiritual tourism, not to mention about the status of the Dalai Lama in Western popular culture. Firstly, tourists are coming with the desire to hear and often to learn. Speaking and listening, part of sociality, contribute to the group of behaviours that mark us as human (at least for the time being). Whether out of curiosity or the desire for spiritual education, tourists come here wanting more than to see a sight, take a picture, buy a hat, and go. This comes back to the notion I spoke of in my parting words on Rishikesh - that the people one meets here are, by and large, trying to be more spiritually healthy and to ultimately become better people. They are coming to look after themselves, to find renewal from which they can return to everyday life with greater strength or better practice. That they do come says that whatever they are finding here is either not available at home (the failure of Western secular 'life' to adequately deal with itself) or must be tapped at the source (albeit displaced in some circumstances).
Secondly, despite so many Western tourists coming to learn from the Dalai Lama and Tibetan Buddhism, most do not consider themselves Buddhist. My immediate impression from this was that it was indicative of how normalised Tibetan Buddhism is in the West (though not so much as to be considered culturally normal). This most is most prominently displayed in the types of travellers (I now see that I use that term interchangeably with 'tourists' - a problem perhaps) here. They are 'normal' in that one sees all types here - well funded and budget, old and young, mainstream and fringe. The presence of Tibetan Buddhism in Western popular culture results in it having a broad based appeal, not just for those interested in studying its intricacies but also for those wanting to 'hear what Buddhism has to say' about life, the universe, and everything. A useful set of tools, perhaps.
Finally, the persona of the Dalai Lama himself is huge. Many speak of him wit reverence and love, which I personally found refreshing and very pleasant. How many other world leaders do we speak of in positive terms. Most Australians, Americans, and British I chatted with were thoroughly fed up with and often disgusted at the decisions and agendas of their leaders. For many, the thought that it was possible to be a world leader (though not a political one as such) and promote peace, harmony, and happiness for all is a very comforting thought indeed. I feel likewise, and think that our present crop of political power brokers could do with some lessons, though perhaps they simply wouldn't listen. Yet, in addition to this, there can be no denying that the man has a contagious and very genuine 'happiness' and charisma. Seeing him up close (Jess and I got within a few meters as he passed by on the way to a puja) is a special experience, perhaps because of his commitment to such peaceful and loving ideals. I'm still thinking about this one though and am not yet ready to fully comment on it. In any case, that notion of undying commitment to world peace is most heartening, it's just a shame that so many don't actually want it. Who would have thought I could use the lyrics of a band I dislike (Megadeth), but they fit here: "Peace sells, but who's buying?"
Few, it seems, apart from some of the world's travellers.
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