The Adventures(?) of a Reluctant Trekker

Because someone suggested something similar and I'm at a loose end. Or something like that, anyway. The Trek mentioned below is the grandly-named National Himalayan Trekking Expedition 2013-14, Sandakphu-Gurdum, organized by the Youth Hostels Association of India; hereafter known as YHAI.

Disclaimer: This is a long post and will eventually be supplemented with pictures to make it less tl;dr. When I get them from the people who'd been taking them.

Day One:

We land in Darjeeling and it is effing cold. 

ONE picture with my dahling brother to commemorate. The concert stage in the background, if anyone cares.

We make very good time from Bagdogra airport via Kurseong, where we eat some okay-ish momos and I give fried momos a trial run--they are epic! and I solemnly swear to eat them again as soon as I can.

The heritage Himalayan Railway has no tickets for us, fortunately or unfortunately. It is a slow diesel engine which criss-crosses the road and follows along it for most of the way, so I don't feel like we've missed anything. In contrast, the cab journey is comfortable and quick. I meet people for the first time(they meet me too :D ) and everything is going swimmingly so far. Registration takes almost no time and we set off to explore the streets of Darjeeling.

Mall road is pedestrian-only and crowded with shawl, sweater and souvenir(or 'curio') shops. And, of course, with people. At the square at the end of the road is a concert organized through the Darjeeling Tea and Tourism Festival; there are a lot of people watching and listening, also singing and dancing(a little too merrily, if you ask me ;) ). ((I buy a book, a collection of Roald Dahl short stories to entertain myself.)) A wrong turning leads us down the road to the kabristan. Everyone is a bit spooked at this.

We finish off the evening with exactly 15 minutes of Dhoom 3, more than enough for me(Funny story there :D :D) and get some dinner/sleep.

Day Two:

We walk up and down a lot.

Us being all orderly and in line and all. Really.   Pic courtesy: Parin

We wake at a quarter to six, a respectably early time. Hot tea is welcome(I don't realize yet exactly how welcome it will be in the days to come). We jog up to the square and do some stretching, during which the (mean >.<) base camp leader gives us some good solid advice about acclimatization.

Then we get some hot kheer(yum) and the first in a long line of deep-fried foods, before we see off the day's group. One-two-one-two-three! Our hands are hurting from the clapping by the time all 45-odd people have crossed us. Back to the hostel hotel for breakfast, after which we are dragged hither and thither against our wills by the base camp leader, who keeps yelling and even threatens bodily harm at one point(credit someone else :D). Apparently the spirit of Christmas Day is lost on him :P.

We have some rather nice momos and tea at the intersection of the roads leading to the Japanese temple and St. Paul's. There's a verry verry interesting whistle.(And a verry verry steep climb up to some school where some movie was shot).

The afternoon is uneventful- some shopping and these really cool ribbons which can be simply pulled upwards to make pretty bows for the 'Christmas presents' we buy. My own present was a Kinder Joy(with Surprise! See my post on Joy).

In the night we eat at Glenary's, which has good food and probably deserves its reputation. We're a little worried about breaking a healthy proportion of YHAI rules --and with good reason. We write an apology letter and get yelled at some more. Sleep follows.

Day Three:

We're finally off. Some teething problems.

Above the clouds. Is that Kanchenjunga?! 

We wake, eat breakfast, pack and are applauded off by the next group. It's about an hour and a half to the start of the trek at Dhotrey. There are some more momos waiting for us here, and (possibly more importantly) our guides.

We set off and everyone realizes simultaneously that they're wearing too many layers. Slowly the outer ones come off and disappear into rucksacks. As the day goes on, some of us note that our backpacks are too full of useless junk(not me, though. Really :P.) 

This first day is around 8 kilometres, six more or less upwards to Tonglu and the last two gently sloping downwards to our first camp. The climb is gruelling for someone who has never walked so much((carrying some 7 kilos)). Not tiring, oh no, I'm too reluctant a trekker to ever get tired, but breathing problems abound at higher altitudes, and I keep stopping, ostensibly to admire the scenery, but really to control my breathing and try to stop panting. I'm pretty much the last to arrive at Tonglu, our highest point of the day.

Eventually, as the sun is setting, we reach Tumling camp, gaining some wonderful views of the Zonga(That's Kanchenjunga to the uninitiated ;) ). Soup is followed by warming our hands at the fireplace, which is followed by coffee and the 'Campfire', basically a programme in which we entertain ourselves. I'm slightly sick, but gather that everyone is playing Dumb charades, and having a good time, too.

Day Four:

Worst. Trekking Day. Ever.

It's a relief to see the Kali(black) pokhri(lake).   Pic courtesy: Vigi

The night is uncomfortably cold, and so is coffee and breakfast. We set off to yet another speech; this is routine, and we'll be cheering every day at eight(maybe slightly later, depending on everyone's punctuality)

The Tumling camp leader wasn't kidding when he talked about ups and downs. We're just not prepared for two horrible, horrible kilometres uphill after eight fairly-decent kilometers straight but get by somehow. But at lunch, we know the worst is over, and have a nice, peaceful 4 kilometre walk to the next camp. This is the most fun we have that day, skirting several hills and keeping our destination, Kalapokhri, in sight for long periods. Or maybe I'm having fun because someone in our little group is making funny noises at the distance we apparently still have left(sorry :/)

At Kalapokhri, we see the sacred lake(pond? water source?) and get yelled at for not sticking together --like a family! A 50-people-long, disciplined family. We hang around outside as the winds buffet us. I'm feeling rather sorry for myself by the time the whole exchange is done. We huddle around some coals which feel good after the freezing cold wind. There is a very-ahem!-spirited game of Antakshari before dinner, and then it's time to retire for the night. I get no sleep, yet again. Other people also have no luck.

Day Five:

The final uphill stretch.

Steeeep.   Pic courtesy: Parin

We are a little jittery about the last six kilometres to Sandakhphu; it's what we've all been waiting for, etc etc. Also, the previous night hasn't been good for sleeping, what with the winds howling outside like banshees and witches.

But the distance gets eaten up quickly enough; and we barely have time to get really tired by the time we see the top. Sadly, the clouds have been accumulating near the mountains, and almost nothing can be seen of the Zonga.

That last stretch seems endless, with Sandakphu always in sight but never within reaching distance. There is no redeeming scenery since the clouds descended, either. We reach in time for lunch, and are promptly kicked out and told to come back by 5.

Singing is fun, and singing songs I actually know the lyrics to is fun-er. I barely even feel cold once we head back for some tea and pakoras. Before dinner is what everyone jokingly calls the Camp Candle--which is exactly what it sounds like, a candle instead of a campfire. Horror stories are told and everyone feels a shiver at the thought of a red eye staring back through a crack in the wall. Various other psychopaths and monsters haunt my dreams. However, at least I'm (finally) (actually) getting some rest.

Interlude:

Sunrise at Sandakphu.

Awesome pic by Jagannath, who takes awesome pics anyhow. Admire the beauty. I say to you, admire it.

At Sandakphu, I am determined not to miss the sunrise: never mind that I haven't seen a single one so far.

And I'm glad I woke up, no matter how much the cold bites my poor fingers and toes. The sunrise over the mountains cannot be missed. It is one of the best experiences I've had so far, and I crave experiences, so it was all worth it, every single minute.

I don't have the words to describe the colours and, simply, the feel. Amazing, it was. The Zonga was incredible, all of the mountain ranges were incredible, and so was Everest.

Going back to tea and breakfast is a regret-filled task.

Day Six:

We're going down. No, really.

We more or less skip downhill(at least, I do :P) for thirteen kilometres, with some more wonderful views, of valleys and mountains and little hamlets halfway down mountains. I hear some interesting conversation and watch a name being scratched into a nearby rock.

Finally, we reach Gurdum, slightly late for lunch. ((I finally find the time to read that book but nod off after two stories)) In relief, I sleep for 12 hours straight, and would sleep some more if we didn't have to leave in a mere half-hour. 

Apparently, everyone else does something Campfire- and dinner-related; but I can't be sure, as I am dead to the world during that entire time.

Day Seven:

I bid my comfy bed in Gurdum farewell and move off.

Beside the river. Hypnotising.   Pic courtesy: Parin

We go down through some rather pretty forest trails, before reaching a river. The river is a-ma-zing, and I am tempted to stay on the first bridge I come to, staring at the hypnotizing eddies and currents below my feet.

Of course, that's not strictly allowed, and I tear myself away from the wonderful mountain river, with its smooth stones and white caps, to continue along a straight-ish trail that's crossed several times over with little clear streams, all leading to the main river. The river-sound makes for a wonderful soundtrack for the first part of the trek.

Eventually, we come to the scary, shaky rope bridge which is supposed to hold only three people at a time, two of which are usually posing for a photograph. Everyone crosses this way and then runs down to the riverbank, balancing on various rocks on the way.

We wait for the last group to cross on the rocks.((I have my story-telling skills insulted. I hope this blog post doesn't suffer the same fate >.<))

A little ahead of the rope bridge is the place where we have lunch: another opportunity to connect to the beautiful river, and some really nice khichdi. The last few kilometres are much fun; we see some nice views of the various valleys, we also sing some more, and talk and dawdle and generally enjoy ourselves. There's no painful uphill/downhill. This is the (trekking) life. We reach Rimbik.

There's a felicitation ceremony that's almost slipped our minds, but we're just in time for it. We listen to a lot of speeches, some suggestions for improvements(more exercises?! The horror!) and are given medals and certificates. One gala dinner later, it's time for bed and happy dreams.

Epilogue:

Still a reluctant trekker. Had infinite fun on this trek. Was a bit like prison, lots of rules, but I'm guessing that's why the trek was so peaceful, because everyone had to listen and most everyone did.

Made a new friend or two; had a blast for New Year's in Darjeeling. Couldn't have imagined a better way to spend the last week of 2013. :)

Do I want to go trekking again?

No.

Will I go trekking again?

There's a high probability that I will.

Will I enjoy it?

But of course.

Under the rose

 It hurts for someone to read something that isn’t meant to be read. For me, a diary has always been for my eyes, and my eyes alone. 

 I’ve written in them when I was happy and when I was sad, frustrated at the world and at myself, and when I was happiest and most content, too. When I began accessing the internet, and realised all about journals and things, I began to feel that, here too was a place where I could express myself without people caring or judging me(of course, that was before the age of youtube comments). 

 When people began to read and discuss my blog with me, too, I felt acutely uncomfortable, because I never thought my writing would matter enough for people to read it, keep it in mind. That itself is not particularly a bad thing, but to think that people who know me are reading it, and judging me by what I think about, what I write about: It does two things; one, it makes me put an automatic curb on what I say. So now, when I write my blog and think something slightly unconventional or controversial, I pull myself back a bit, hesitate, because

- what will people say? 

 Which is why I feel violated and/or threatened when people read my diary. I’m not saying, of course, that my blog is so private or so personal that readers should not read it. But my diaries, all the ones I kept since I was around 11 or so, yes, that is something I never wanted anyone to read. 

 And I know that it's hard to understand why it’s so important to me, but believe me when I say that I wrote whatever I did safe in the knowledge that no one need ever read it unless I showed it to them, and now that knowledge is gone, for everything in my collection. The feeling I get when I read back my old things is replaced by this dread in the pit of my stomach, saying, has someone read this or seen that? And it makes me terribly, terribly unhappy. 

You don’t know how much. 

I may as well burn the books now, for all the comfort that they give me.

Katze.

P.S. Inspired by the only writer around my age who I really look up to. I didn't think I'd have the guts to post this, but I did.(Or do, rather.)

Mid-Endsem gloominess, hurrah.

Book Cravings: Rose in Bloom

I need this book so badly that I'd sell my soul for it, if I believed in the concept of a soul somehow inhabiting a body, etc etc.

Louisa May Alcott's Rose in Bloom, a sequel to Eight Cousins, which I also loved, but not half as much again as I love this book. And, dear god, I do love it.

Mac is, as I reiterate, my favourite fictional character(male), and quite, quite a perfect specimen of his race. Rose is also an amazing character, and this book has taught me so much about growing up and taking decisions, even though it was written well over a hundred years ago. Little Women can get preachy sometimes, and I never really forgave Jo for giving up Laurie to Amy, whom I disliked tremendously.[Um, spoiler for whoever hasn't read Little Women and/or Good Wives]

The edition above is a 1929 edition published by Grosset and Dunlap; it's available on ebay for approximately 2000 bucks, including shipping. That's 2000 bucks that I can't, in good conscience spend on what is technically a second-hand book, not in particularly great condition. But we wantss it, don't we preciousss?

Oh my. Maybe I should sell a kidney. Who needs two, anyway?

Katze.

P.S. See? You get this book for free on kindle, but I'd much rather sell a kidney to get a delicious, illustrated, old hardback edition. Because it's more than the owning of it or the reading of it: it's the book itself-

What I've learned

... from all the stuff that's being going on in my life and in my mind.

(I'm sure no one's interested in reading a blog post like this, so off you go; yes, you)

1. If they're not learning, don't be quick to blame/judge them. Try and see the defects in your own teaching which makes them bored or overwhelmed and learn how to keep them engaged and interested.

2. Reading is a whole lot more than just reading. There's writing, and there's criticism, and there's other stuff two. Writing is not just writing, either. It's reading too. Complicated? You bet.

3. Friends are harder to keep than to make.(Duh. No kidding.)

4. You can predict 3 dimensional structures of large biomolecules using NMR!(Somewhat.)(Actually, I'll read more on this and get back to you: not totally convinced yet.)

5. Hard to pick a favourite fictional character: particularly the guys.

See you around.

K

Dear Writer's Block

Dear Writer’s Block, 

It’s not you, it’s me. 

I’ve had a good run with you, and we’ve grown reasonably fond of each other, even if we do have little quarrels whenever I cheat on you with my novel. Well, I know you’ve been with me longer, but there’s no denying that you’re stifling my creativity. It’s a vicious cycle, honestly. The more you’re around, the less I feel like writing, and then you come back, stronger than ever.

So I’m breaking up with you, because I can’t keep having you in the back of my mind, a little nagging voice saying, “You can’t do that!” and “I’d like to see you try”. I want a better, healthier relationship in which I can really grow as a writer and, of course, as a person. I want to be able to work on my novel in peace, and to stop having to make up flimsy excuses like “Life got in the way” or whatever. I want my creativity to find real expression, and not just as mindless little fairy tales I make up for Sravya as she falls asleep every night.

You wouldn’t understand the joy I feel when I put words on paper, as I read them back, again and again, finding mistakes and correcting them, improving, always improving. Those mornings when I sit by the window, a cup of tea in one hand, and a fresh idea in my head and the world just seems to work.

And that is why I can’t be with you anymore. I hope you understand. I don’t wish that you’ll find another fruitful relationship, but only because I want writers everywhere to be able to do their thing without you getting in the way. Yet, somehow, I think you’ll be alright. 

As long as there are people who don’t believe in themselves.

Katze

Writing exercise. Isn't pre-midsem week just the best time for these? :P :D

Friendship and Its Many Benefits

I am alone. It is cold and it is dark and this is not the first time I've found myself here.

I've grown complacent and comfortable, and the dark side of life has come and shaken me, to wring me dry and toss me out again.

I sit and watch people pass by. They live their lives the same way I do, and yet they seem to have something protecting them; some sort of insulating layer between them and the hurt of the world. There are moments: both emerald green and sapphire blue. I wish I could be that way. I wonder if I could ever be that way.

People are always disappointing you. Somehow, at some stage of a relationship, you give away some fragile part of you, and it never comes back in one piece. So why do I still try? Every time, I hope it'll be different, but it's never worked out like that for me.

Maybe it's that I'm always disappointing myself.

Where was I? Oh, yes.

I am still alone. I wait for his call, knowing it won't come, knowing that which once existed is lost forever. But I wait in the dark, hoping and praying that it's not too late.

------

Fiction, sliiiightly dark. 206 words. NOT from life, so if you--yes, you--think it's about you, eff off. :P

Katze

P.S. Maybe inspired a little by all the poetry we're doing in Reading Lit. All the metaphors and symbolism.

The Doctor: A Bedtime Story

It's been a while. Something came up. A lot of somethings. Time for an inane bedtime story!

Once upon a time, there was a boy who wanted to be a doctor. He had heard it involved cutting people up and wanted in on the fun.

He started with flies and bugs. (They all do.)

He got bored soon enough, seeing the innards scattered all over the place. After all, they weren't the slightest bit like human ones. Or so his 7th grade Biology class informed him. Insects and Mammals. Different Divisions, Phyla, whatever.

Cats went missing. Strays and not-so-strays. After all, when Ginger took it into her head to disappear for a while, she'd come back in her own time. No point hurrying her.

But soon he had seen all he could see there, too. There must be something else.

There was the one dog. But dogs aren't like cats: they come when they're called, and when they don't, there are search parties and finding the remains, and there are sobby kids and blame. Always the blame.

But it was when little Risa went missing that people finally thought there was something wrong. By then, of course, he was well on his way out of this little town and to the big city; with hundreds of bodies just waiting to be opened up for his satisfaction.

The police investigated and held press conferences: there were demonstrations and pamphlets telling everyone to be careful. They reached him, too, of course. And he really was careful, just like they said.

It ended when he cut himself up, just to see if he was the same as them inside. Just to see.

The End. Now go to sleep, you.