Author / phyllidafurse

by phyllidafurse

On Passage

Life on Board the RCGS Resolute

Ushuaia to Falkland Islands

Someone asked me about the trip the other day ‘don’t you get bored when you’re at sea?’

Life on board a professionally run vessel is anything but boring. Ships all have their routines and rhythms perforce. And these generally revolve around meals! Typically we would wake to our expedition leader’s dulcet tones over the intercom: “Good morning, good morning, good morning. This is RCGS Resolute. It is 7am and we are now in position for… ” etc. “We hope to commence operations at… Please listen up for announcements. Breakfast is now being served in the bistro or in the dining room.”

A sizeable cooked breakfast was on offer in the dining room, or you could graze freestyle at the bistro. It was an important slightly private part of the day, as you never knew quite what the later draws on your energy might be, if making a landing. I favoured the airy bistro on the upper deck where you could get outside quickly if you wanted to. People clutched their coffees and spoke in hushed tones, sometimes going out to take photos or to assess the cold. This was also important as it determined how much clothing you might put on. Occasionally there’d be a call from the bridge and everything stopped when there was a whale or bird sighting. There would follow a mad dash to seize cameras and an extra layer to join the ranks of avid photographers outside.

A close dialogue necessarily existed between the bridge and the Expedition Leader. Whilst the ship’s Captain had to steer us safely, the Expedition Leader had the tricky task of planning the hoped-for landings while communicating some slightly open ended outcomes to the rest of us. Weather in the Southern Ocean is intensely variable, so despite the best efforts of all concerned, certain operations have to be pulled at the last moment. We had even got as far as the beach by zodiac on one occasion, but could not land as the wind had whipped up and the wave height was building. It was a cold soaking as we sploshed back through icy chop in driving sleet. However, by that stage we had all come to meekly accept whatever happened.

One highlight of the day was the weather forecast. This came at lunch time. Famously, having delivering news of the challenging (near gale) conditions on Drake Passage, including 10m wave heights and 40 knot winds, he wished us all a pleasant day….

Sea sickness was certainly an issue for some. One’s sense of balance constantly has to adjust, because the floor is not always in the same place as it was last time. Many retreated to their cabins. I am blessed with many secret afflictions but I do have reasonable sea legs. My only symptom was a slight sleepiness or urge to get outside. It is important to keep blood sugars up by nibbling on dry biscuit or bread. On our first bit of ‘rough’, I went to check on my friend who was stuck in her cabin. Possibly fuelled by the wine at dinner, I thought I would try running down the corridors. With the floor coming at all angles, the centre of gravity kept changing, so I felt almost weightless. This proved to be great fun; a bit like flying. (Not for everyone, I realise).

The ship was like a floating university of specialists and enthusiasts, passionately keen to teach us about the places that we were going to experience. At sea we were kept busy with immersive lectures from our guest speakers: they were Stephen Venables, Everest mountaineer, Canadian naturalist Brian Keating, Welsh photographer Sue Flood, and Canadian anthropologist Wade Davis as well as the resident One Ocean historian Katie, whose knowledge of Antarctic history was spell binding. She took us right into the heart of human endurance with stories of the early days Antarctic exploration. All kept us entranced on many a rough section of sea, kindly willing to answer all questions, whether complex or simple. Brian’s unbridled passion for any kind of wild life, liberally illustrated by video clips collected from his multitudinous journeys, raised the ship’s mood every time he spoke. Sue Flood was incredibly generous with her tips and guidance on how to take and frame a photograph which communicated. Her enviable skill in capturing character and textural detail, not to mention movement, both inspired and humbled. Wade spoke fervently of the human spirit: of how WW1 had spawned a generation of defiant survivors whose ferocious desire to explore the world coupled with a fearless tenacity in pursuit of their dreams, (as in George Mallory’s bid for Everest in 1921-24), had led them to the extremes of human existence. He also graphically illustrated the universal human instinct to survive against all the odds, as so many indigenous tribes have to continue to do in the face of the marauding west. Stephen captivated us with his passionately delivered but modest accounts of his extraordinary climbing feats. He was part of a team of four on the first ascent of Everest via the Kangshung Face and was also the first Briton to summit without oxygen, alone. He spoke honestly and openly about the difficult decisions which had to be made, and of the battles with his mind against giving in to fatigue. It had been a narrow squeak making it down.

Wade, Sue and Stephen

On our first day of ‘steaming’ (being at sea), we were inducted into the rules of biosecurity. In order to preserve the ecology of our landing sites, South Georgia and the Antarctic Peninsula in particular, we had to be rigorously schooled in properly scrubbing our gum boots, and remembering to give them a final dip in biocide. Then there was the removal of anything at all from our oilskins (Gills) that might carry ashore some contagion. Velcro patches on our kit had to be removed or closely picked over in case a single shred of white tissue or similar might have adhered. I think my boots were rejected three times before I passed muster. It was good training however, and soon we were merrily trading the wire brush for the hose when trying to get the best result and outsmart the Mud Room über führer.

Here’s me having snaffled the wire brush..

There was an unspoken no frills pact between the ladies. Only in the evening would some apply a few strokes of war paint in an attempt to feel less weather blown. You had to be quick though as there was always the official round up of the day and tomorrow’s briefing happening at 6.30pm during Happy Hour!

The great thing about the Resolute was that she was warm. This we felt deeply grateful for if we’d been out dodging brash or ice bergs in the Zodiacs. I had been very concerned about feeling the cold before the trip, bringing with me a trunk load of toe warmers, but after layering up with merino base layers, silk socks (fantastic!!) and hiking socks over the top of those, hands swathed in two pairs of gloves, and the whole over coated by a hat, neck gaiter and oilies, I can honestly say I was fine.

Trying out the togs ..!

There was the inevitable pre-swelter as you garbed up on board before lining up for the chill of the Zodiacs, but once ashore, and moving around you quickly generated more heat.

Ashore – when suddenly the sun came out!

The end of the day was a great time to share photos or badger the experts. Jeremy and I had recently bought digital mirrorless cameras, equivalent to the old SLRs, but smaller bodied and more than able to do the same work. We had even done ‘Level One’ of a photography course at home. But to begin with, we both felt woefully challenged by their operation. There was much cursing in the marsh as our inexperienced fingers and thumbs fumbled over the buttons and changed a newly found precious setting. Indeed I was so cross one day I felt like stamping. Mercifully a lovely man called Euan (below, with his wife Nicola)

showed me what was happening: a simple case of mistakenly set ‘Post Focus’. (‘”What???) (I will explain if you don’t know, but not here!) Since everyone else clearly knew what they were doing, we each developed a cunning technique of stalking a friendly looking photographer, sidling up casually and saying something like “Sorry, but what shutter speed were you using?” Or “Were you shooting in burst or bracketing just then?” (A little knowledge is a dangerous thing). As for the size of Aperture one chooses, why the F numbers are inversely proportioned to the depth of field you require is difficult to grasp at first, until finally the penny drops… You can only learn by doing it. However, thanks to the sterling offers of help, and our own stubborn persistence, things did gradually start to make sense. Jeremy’s acute vision often bagged him some stunning shots. My misty eyes were much slower. But through a burgeoning sense of competition I developed a working knowledge of the camera menu and was able to advise him on such things as restoring the ‘Auto White Balance,’ customising the point of focus or removing a pre-set filter. This was shamefully gratifying. Thanks to Sue, ‘Histograms’ crept onto the syllabus, so that we started to adjust the light compensation, in, for example, very white conditions. Nearly everyone had a camera slung round their neck and a lens bag. We simply had to get on with it.

Often, after dinner, a film or a talk was offered in ‘Tall Tales from the Bar.’ Brian’s epithet ‘Shameless Shorts’ was coined for some of the short wildlife video clips he would show.

These comprised wonderful micro bites of his extensive wildlife travels with his wife Dee. As I said before, his avuncular inclusivity and playful approach made it impossible not to get excited about spotting a black browed Albatross or a group of Gentoo Penguins coursing through the water.

By the time we reached our first stop, the Falkland Islands, we felt ready for anything.

by phyllidafurse

Setting out – ‘Resolutely!’

Third Leg: Leaving Ushuaia

After a little sleep at The Albatross Hotel we woke to a brisk sunny morning. On peering from the window, the RCGS Resolute was just visible behind the odd crane. We flung open the windows and I took a deep breath. I felt brim full of excitement. Where would she take us, both physically and mentally?!

A tour of the museum in Ushuaia, which was located in the old prison, revealed the harsh treatment of its often political inmates, and tales of an equally harsh life led by everyone living there until relatively recently. Black and white photos of thinly clothed prisoners toiling in the snow outside and being able to step inside oneself into their minute gloomy cells quickly gave one a feel. Ushuaia is the most southerly town in the world, and with the tail end of the Andes looming over it, it feels a far flung place! There are about 70,000 inhabitants. Buildings are low and iron roofed, many in gay reds and greens, and the main drag is populated by a good many outdoor gear shops and sundry eateries. Our new friend Janet, walked with us. Feeling a little buffeted after touring the museum, we all sank gratefully into a little cafe for a snack to warm up. Travelling is tiring and the body just needs to catch up sometimes.

Later, we trooped the short distance to The Resolute by coach and were politely herded on board. It was absolutely wonderful to be shown into our roomy cabin complete with bathroom and cupboards galore. Better than home almost!! It was tempting to run around the ship screaming like kids in a hotel but age and dignity prevailed. Instead we went up on deck and watched the ship being cast off. The excitement was tangible!

People stood on deck in little clumps, chatting shyly to one another. I spotted our three guest speakers, Wade Davis of ‘Into the Silence’ fame, (amongst many other acclaimed oeuvres); Stephen Venables, who had made history in 1988 climbing Everest up the Kangshung Face without oxygen; and Sue Flood, award winning photographer with David Attenborough Blue Planet and author of some drool worthy photographic tomes. I just knew we were in for some special times with them….

As we left, the blues and greys and distant jagged peaks etched themselves into our consciousness. I kept thinking of Darwin aboard the Beagle and all those who had travelled this way in the past… I clicked away on my camera and phone. What a thrill it was to feel the chill breeze blowing all those travel cobwebs and cares away, ushering in the adventures to come.

New ship mates Rosemary and Mark..

Popping out of the Beagle Channel. Next stop.. The Falkland Islands!

by phyllidafurse

Second Leg – Buenos Aires to Ushuaia

After the exhaustion and excitement of the previous day, we awoke slowly, the black out blinds obliterating the early morning sunshine. I tangled with the bedclothes. And then, slowly surfaced my first thought: “tea!” So I fell out of bed, progressing east, and fumbled with the Nespresso machine until I got some hot water out of it. Raising the blinds I saw this:

Several cups later, we descended for breakfast.

It was a pleasantly slow morning, rearranging our packing to accommodate the weight restrictions for the flight south, and yours truly tapping out the next post. Don’t know how you feel, but I always find writing to be the most diverting and satisfying way of translating an experience. It absorbs the attention and intensifies what you have lived!

Later, we all congregated in the lobby before being gently propelled on to our coaches to the domestic flight terminal. Having feared the worst, our bags were weighed in with neither frowns nor penalties. Liberated, we then joyfully progressed to the Departure Lounge and whiled away a pleasant hour with my new friend, Jill.

We boarded the internal flight to Ushuaia and were soon up and away.

There were a good few clouds to get through first however.

As I sat reading my book ‘Alone on the Ice’ my eyes kept wanting to close, until they did.

Just over three hours later I was thrilled to peer out of the window and espy the cloud wreathed mountains of Ushuaia… with snow in parts, pockets of blue grey sea nudging the coast. The contrast from Buenos Aires could not have been greater. The grey blue Beagle Channel was only yards from the runway. We disembarked, and walked into a warm timbered arrivals hall resembling a Norwegian spa far more than an airport building. The whole place felt thrilling yet strangely familiar. And I enjoyed the cold.

We were soon conveyed to our hotel (The Albatross) by coach, and having dumped our bags, belted outside for a quick sniff of the sea air. It did feel exciting, being in a place so close to everything I was reading about..Selfies etc were taken.

Although it was still light, time was marching on, so we dined in at The Albatross, and mused quietly. Tomorrow would see us board The Resolute and begin our voyage.

by phyllidafurse

First Leg – London to Buenos Aires

Jeremy peered into the inky black January evening. “He’s here.”

John, our driver, was already outside, waiting for us, 15 minutes early. It was only 6pm but it might as well have been midnight. With a great heave ho we piled our two heavily laden ‘Eastpacks’ and a couple of equally laden cabin bags into the car. There followed the last frantic checking and re-checking on the presence of our phones, passports and documentation, before it was time to slam the front door and get going.

The vehicle creamed its way south, unhindered by queues or jams. We stared mindlessly at the lights streaming by, the occasional road signs, lost in thought. When you have been waiting for a particular adventure to start for so long, you can begin to doubt it has, but here we were, bound for Heathrow. We were flying to Buenos Aires, and thence south to the bottom of the world: Ushuaia, to tour The Falkland Islands, South Georgia and the Antarctic Peninsula. This had been a dream for years, and now it was happening!

A welcome call from one of the children broke the journey. There was much exchanging of well wishing and family news.. then… fond farewells. We drew up outside Terminal Five and threaded our way to bag drop.

It had hardly been a gentle run up to this point. Having celebrated my 60th birthday in wild style only a couple of weeks beforehand, I had immediately been felled by a fluey cold, lying prone and feverish for several days. The spectre of having to travel whilst poorly (as had happened once previously) loomed, but Jeremy determinedly nursed me back to health. Then one of my toes started complaining and at the eleventh hour could no longer be ignored, so I was obliged to submit to the blade. A large corn was identified and excavated with some relish (still recovering). But wonky feet are not desirable for trudging through slush or hikes across the ice.

Then, twenty fours before leaving, Jeremy too succumbed to the virus. He retreated first to the safety of his armchair by the fire and eventually to bed. He is a stoic patient, preferring to fight his battles on his own, unlike me who tends to imagine the worst, requiring much sympathy and holding of the hand. As he lay there the night before we left, a wild and chilly wind whipped menacingly around the house, rattling our attic windows. I was wrapt in my readings of Stephen Venables’ audacious ascent of Everest without oxygen, and might as well have been storm blown on the ice myself, so atmospheric was the sound.

We enjoyed a long but uneventful flight, even sleeping a bit. It seems extraordinary that you can travel 8000 miles in only 14 hours. I wonder what those arch rivals Shackleton and Scott would have made of it. The world may have shrunk, but sometimes I think a little of the ability to suffer and risk all to penetrate ‘terre incognite’ may have gone with it. But I am sure many would disagree!

*******

Arrival

We touched down on time at 9am local time. Clutching the two extra fleeces and shawl I had snatched last minute, my camera and a small rucksack, we made an ungainly exit into the oven temperature of a cloudless Buenos Aires day. We passed through the airless immigration hall and slowly gathered in our travel group, smiling and introducing ourselves. Then came the welcome bliss of an air conditioned coach ride to the Alvear Art Hotel.

By some clever feat of negotiation Jeremy had managed to secure us an immediate check in. Our room on 15th floor, commanded a broad urban view (see above) of concrete blocks and office buildings. So we showered and changed and gathered ourselves a little. Having travelled over night and arrived in sauna temperatures, most people would then have rested or swum in the hotel pool. But we had a cycle tour arranged! I stealed myself for the heat.

A few blocks away we found our guide Camila, clad in her uniform of shorts and ‘biketours’ T shirt, her helmet slung nonchalantly over the back of her head. She stood in the shade near our bicycles; large black affairs, gearless and slightly battered but rejoicing in goodly suspension and capacious padded saddles. Camila proved both expert and charming.

Cycle ways are clearly demarcated in Buenos Aires. The roads are almost flat and laid out in grid style. Avenues are often tree lined, by acacias, eucalyptus, pines, and maple trees, providing islands of blessed shade.

We would pause under these as Camila gave us our next piece of historical information, in remarkably clear English. Here is the Planetarium:

Beginning at the San Martin Plaza, she talked us through a whole range of monuments and places including the Falklands memorial, the Torre de los Inglese in Retiro, and the remarkable solar powered metal flower ‘Floris Generica’ which closes at night and opens each morning. Then we continued past the Malba museum of Latin American Art, round 3rd Feb Park and it’s beautiful rose garden, and into a super upmarket quarter of Palermo. Property prices here run at $4000/sq m – but you don’t just need money to live there. One buys only on the personal recommendation of another resident. Hmm!

From there we eventually curled homeward past the monument to Eva Peron and round to Recoleta and the Cemetaey where Eva Peron is buried. The cemetery is a veritable village of tombs, laid out in grandiose ghostly streets, some even having front doors or glass screens behind which whole families of caskets lie, dust covered and a little lonesome looking. Beautiful carving and carrara statues abounded

By now, rivulets of sweats had coursed down our bodies, so that trousers were wringing and clinging to our legs and I could feel my skin prickle alarmingly. It was with some relief therefore, that we followed Camila back from there to the hotel. Notwithstanding the heat and the discomfort, she had managed to lead us serenely and engagingly for a distance of over 17kms. Well done that woman!

An hour or two later we gathered for a welcome drink and a short presentation of what the trip has in store. (All will be revealed anon..)! Then another lovely cool coach ride to a restaurant where we enjoyed the enormous privilege of sitting with Wade Davis, author of many books including Into the Silence. It charts the emergence of pioneers and fearless explorers who had defied death in World War One and felt the world was theirs for the taking. His anthropological passion poured forth as we chatted at the table. The wine flowed, quantities of tasty meat were put before us and I could feel myself sink into an exhausted but contented haze. Yet.. I now can’t wait to learn more!

by phyllidafurse

South

“I’d really like to go to Antartica”

“Don’t be silly. You feel the cold.”

“No, really. I want to see the ice and the blues..and be on the Southern Ocean..”

“Hm.” A snap rattle of the newspaper and a loud silence ended the conversation. But it did mark the beginning – of this journey.

Tonight, we are on the eve of departing for Buenos Aires. We will spend a day and a night there and then fly south to rainy wind swept Ushuaia, the southern most town of South America. The following day we join our ship, RCGS Resolute  and leave the Beagle Channel on the cruise of a life time, to the Falkland Islands, South Georgia and the Antartica Peninsula. To say I am full of anticipatory butterflies would be an understatement. Have I packed the right stuff? Too much or too little? Will I be able to keep warm? Why on earth are we doing this? I only have to look at an open window and my fingers turn blue.

The truth is I am hooked. For the last ten years I have been devouring books about tales of endurance, mountains and freezing places; all the environments that are inimical to me. I am still immersed in Frank Worsley’s very personal account of Sir Ernest Shackleton  and the legendary rescue of his crew after his ship Endurance was crushed by pack ice. After a few weeks on the ice the twenty eight men were forced to take three life boats and make their way to the wilds of the inhospitable and comfortless Elephant Island. From there Shackleton divided the group, taking five men aboard their largest life boat, the  James Caird for a freezing perilous ride towards South Georgia across the black seas of a nightmare. The privations of starvation, thirst and cold they endured would probably end a modern life quickly, but they survived. A thousand miles later, as they approached South Georgia, and feared they might still be dashed on the rocks, a fluke change in the wind allowed them to effect a safe landing. From that cold and bolder strewn beach, Shackleton, Worsley and Crean left their exhausted ship mates to rest and then trekked over the uncharted mountains inland in order to reach the whaling station and raise a rescue. Three days later, after the most terrifying and life sapping of journeys on foot, when the whaling station finally came into view, they heard voices in the distance. Worsley states it was their first contact with other human beings for two years. The rest you will have to read about, in his book South but the heroism of Shackleton in subsequently saving every single one of his men is the stuff of legends, and a tale of exemplary leadership.

We will not, I hope, be embarking on a such a fraught and dangerous voyage, but none the less be able to see a little of where he went. Penguins, whales, seals and birds will be the moving targets of our lenses, the sea and ice occupying the rest of our attention. We will not be able to upload images or access external websites from the ship, but I will post as and when signal and circumstances permit.

Please come with me, from the safety of your chair.

 

 

 

by phyllidafurse

Last Legs

10th-12th May 2018

A little more surreal luxury awaited us at the Sukvillas Hotel. It consisted of many sand coloured buildings laid out in a vast campus all meticulously paved and planted in regimental fashion.

Little golf buggies were on hand to ferry guests from area to area.

We were given a short tour and then ushered to our quarters, a ‘royal tent’. It was a canopied room with beautiful furnishings and muslin curtains. It took a while to work out how to do the basics as the controls were all electronic. This had some hilarious repercussions which I will relate elsewhere.

We unpacked a little and went for a swim. The pool was immaculate with a lonely life guard on duty and no one else there.

Having failed to iron anything, (the plugs all heavily concealed behind the drapes), but dressed for dinner, we were collected by buggy and transported to the Indian restaurant, which was in a separate area, some distance away. It was all very grand in the softly lit courtyard, and we were treated with great deference. But we were strangely missing the coziness of Wildflower and the simplicity of all our other experiences.

This little fella was waiting for us on the bed when we got back. Someone clearly had a sense of humour..

Jeremy fell into a deep sleep. I couldn’t however, and sat outside just allowing everything to defragment and settle somewhere in the folders of my brain. I rang home and spoke to my cousin Simon. The builders were a bit behind, which soon brought me back to reality.

The next day a new driver collected us (a friend of Anil’s) who took us swiftly on to Amritsar, to the place where we had begun this whole odyssey: Ranjit’s Svaasa.

Chochi the dachshund was still there.

How different we felt from seven weeks ago when we’d arrived. A great booty of treasured memories and a cornucopia of film and photographs would be coming home with us.

We were welcomed back like old friends, and, having got there so early, decided to go for one last foray by tuk tuk into the denizen of souks for some silks. Once chosen, some vigorous bargaining took place and I had to walk away. But we did return with one or two which I was very pleased with.

Next morning, Saturday 12th May, we boarded the plane home. By some fluke Jeremy had managed to rebook us onto a direct flight. How lucky we were.

The plane slowly pulled away. The engines whined. The Airbus peeled itself from the ground.

Minutes later I filmed the cloud, lost in a haze of memories and people who will be with me for ever.

by phyllidafurse

Wildflowering… 9th-10th May

It cannot be denied that Wildflower Hall is a luxury experience. It nestles in the Shimla hills about 45 minutes from Shimla itself. So much attention is lavished on the well being of guests it is almost overwhelming. Staff have been trained to be acutely observant such that what you need seems to materialise even before you think of it.

The building is actually modern, replacing what was originally a long low villa, but it has an old style wooden grandeur about it inside which is also very comfortable. There is a gracious reception area furnished with large armchairs and sofas and plenty of little corners in which to curl up alone or in conversation.

There are also rooms leading off it..

At the back, a conservatory gives out onto an enormous terrace with sensational views. We had breakfast here, staring agog at the alpine beauty.

Whilst I relaxed unashamedly into this parallel universe, (those who know me please stop laughing) Jeremy struggled. Although it was difficult to accept so much attention, I knew that everything was well intended and that they were simply doing their job. Wealthy Indian tourists can be extremely demanding, as we witnessed. But Jeremy did not want anyone to do anything for him, nor even pour him a glass of wine. “I just want to be up Spiti” he said. Hmm. I felt it not tactful to say very much. Personally I was grateful to be safely there right then, enjoying a respite from peeing behind boulders and trying not to feel car sick. We kept a respectful distance on the matter.

The following morning dawned bright and sunny.

After breakfast and the wonderful views from the terrace we set off for a walk round the top of the hill. It was one of the easiest and loveliest we had enjoyed in a while. A path led us through sun dappled pine trees which clamoured to be captured on camera. I took far too many photographs.

We walked past the presidential summer retreat as well as a nicely built house. None too shabby for a pad in the hills, I thought!!

Nearly back at the Hall we poked around a couple of market stalls, and purchased a shawl before I sneaked off for a massage. The whole day had felt like a holiday in itself. Only two more stops before the end of the trip…

*******

The next morning I found myself waiting for Jeremy and Anil on the front lawn. It was another heavenly day. I espied an elegant be-trousered lady also strolling round the garden. She asked if I would mind taking a photo of her on the bench. Naturally I didn’t mind at all and she did the same for me..

We then struck up a conversation. It turned out she was on tour as head of Luxury Experience for the Oberoi Hotel group, of which Wildflower was one. She was visiting each hotel so that she experienced them first hand and knew them properly when making recommendations to clients. (Nice work if you can get it!) Notwithstanding all of that we found we had a lot in common and really hit it off. We parted friends.

I would like to thank Mona Singh personally in this blog as without my realising it she also arranged a very warm welcome on arrival at our next hotel, the Sukvillas, Chandigarh. She represents what the group is trying to be all about: sincerity and an open heartedness in the care of other people. I hope we’ll keep in touch.

Our last day of travels with Anil had arrived. He was taking us to Chandigarh and then heading for home before starting his next tour. The atmosphere was quiet. We were late leaving and then got stuck in a traffic jam. The local bus drivers were in dispute with the government and blocking the way. A long delay was the last thing we needed today. I could feel Jeremy’s tension gathering. Anil and I cantered down the line of stationery traffic to see what was happening. All of a sudden, whistles were blowing and there was a loud cheer. The government had caved in to demands. We ran back to the car.

Very gradually the streets unblocked and we inched forward. There was a great deal of traffic on the road today which we weren’t used to, forcing us to go slowly.

Anil was naturally preoccupied with his next tour and being bombarded by calls on his mobile, which was very distracting. Progress was frustratingly slow. No one said very much. As we neared Chandigarh there was some confusion as to the right road to take for Sukvillas but this was then found.

By early evening we found ourselves deposited ready for our next (brief) Oberoi experience.

It was time to say goodbye. I was not expecting to have become so attached to this young man who had been our sole guardian over 1400kms and two weeks in the wilds of Himachal Pradesh. We’d all been through a lot together, and got to understand each other’s rhythms. Jeremy said his goodbyes and thank yous and went to deal with our bags etc. Anil and I stared at the floor. Then, breaking all protocol, he stepped forward and gave me a great big hug, which I could not fail to return.

That lump in my throat again..

Then he was off and away to his family, where he needed to be.

by phyllidafurse

Flight from Spiti and a Race with the Rain

Descent through Spiti Valley Sun 6th-Tues 8th May

(Tabo to Shimla via Kalpa)

It proved to be a lengthy and energetic journey.

After a last look round Tabo Monastery we left the Maitreyor and loaded the bags into the faithful Toyota, to start down the valley. There were about 2500m to descend.

The roads were just as interminably windy as they had been on the way up, only the weather cast an entirely different shadow over the rock. Without the back drop of the blue sky and sunlight, the colours had cooled and merged into a pale sandy brown.

With 150 tricky kilometres to get through there was nothing for it. The heavy metal was back on again and we blasted our way forward to the sounds of Guns n Roses, Metallica, and Pink Floyd, remorselessly. Later, we listened to the lighter more disco beat of Avicii, but for now, as captain of our little travel machine, Anil needed to have his head, and fly.

We made a couple of stops, for chai and then for food, but we just had to keep going. I was struck by this note outside one place:

It said it all.

In fact we had seen many little roadside epithets on our journeys, ranging from the philosophical “If you can dream you can do it” and “Education is not filling a bucket but lighting a fire!” to the sage “It’s not a rally enjoy the Valley!” Or even, outside Spellow, “peep peep don’t sleep!”

You cannot afford to let your attention wander for a second.

Trucks and buses were out in force today, labouring up and down the narrow road. It made for some gasp- worthy overtaking, but all successful, thank goodness!

Trucks are the real warriors of the road here, brightly painted and sharp edged.

Sadly we did see one that had come to grief, a tangle of dented metal down a hillside. We didn’t linger long to look.

With great concentration Anil cheerfully negotiated bend after bend until we finally reached the valley floor and the confluence of the Spiti with the Sutlej River. We stopped by the big Bailey bridge which spans the two and drank the air.

It was wonderful to get out and walk, and feel the breeze. Anil fooled around with the slo-mo function on my camera, which was quite fun.

The two rivers looked entirely different. The Sutlej, from Tibet, was brown and sandy, the Spiti a gushing mountain green. Together the torrents forged a mighty surging force tumbling under the bridge.

We continued on to Spellow for an afternoon momo stop, and then eventually arrived, very tired, in the early evening at Kalpa, about 8kms up above Reckong Peo. Everywhere we went looked different now, under the slightly lowering weather.

Our room at ‘The Grand Shamba-La’ was up 7 flights of stairs. I felt terrible for the spindly coolies who had to porter our bags up..Once up there we were delighted to discover a heater in our room, and a small balcony offering superb views across to the Kinner Kailash range (not the same location as the sacred Mount Kailash!). We even had power and a non leaking shower. We sat there and luxuriated for a time.

But the weather was closing in…

In the evening we went in search of a drink in the Yeti Bar at the back and ran into a holy delegation from Key Monastery. An important Rimpoche and his retinue were dining there, and we were asked whether we minded all being together. Of course we didn’t!!

We all sat in rows facing an enormous screen and were shown footage of an audience given by the Dalai Lama. It was lovely to see his twinkling face again and hear his voice. There followed an old documentary in Italian about the Kinnauri people and customs. It was extraordinary to know we had witnessed the very things they had filmed, only decades later. A veritable banquet of food was then served to us, by the owner of the hotel, in full Kinnauri costume.

When we got up to leave later, we said our thank yous to the delegation for not minding us being there, and the Rimpoche beamed. He took my hand and held it warmly. “God bless you!” he said. I did indeed feel blessed! We retired, well fed and watered to glorious bed.

*******

We lingered for only a day in Kalpa. The weather was deteriorating and the cold and damp were pervasive. We couldn’t catch up with much owing to a lack of signal. Thunder tumbled around and down came the rain. We managed one afternoon walk but not much else. By Tuesday morning – a good case of cabin fever was on the brew.

“I’m just looking at our options!” declared Jeremy. (A nice warm feeling came over me). I carried on with my shower so he could continue his ponderings unswayed by me! He then proposed to cut out some of the next stops and re route directly to a hotel outside Shimla called Wildflower Hall. It would be another very long drive but get us further down the track to our final destination: Amritsar. The motion was passed unanimously. Anil was also delighted as Shimla was home for him.

Off we set and into the weather. We had RAIN. It chased us along down the valley with our fears of floods and landslides. These are a regular if unpredictable occurrence, and can close roads for days. We almost cowed in the car as we ploughed on, even driving through dense cloud once we got near Shimla..

Jeremy had booked us into a very smart hotel called Wildflower Hall.

It felt like walking out of one world and into another as we got out, on end and filthy, to be reverentially greeted by the General Manager with his uniformed staff in immaculate English. In embarrassed shock we were conducted to our room which immediately wrapped us round in its enveloping warmth. A double bed the size of a football field and large downey pillows awaited. The huge plate glass window afforded views for miles around over hills and trees and in the very far distance the mountains we had just left. But we needed to change and cleanse. There was the untold luxury of a bath to climb into with oceans of hot water. Jeremy ordered us a glass of wine and I practically passed out taking sleepy gulps of it. We had come through all the perils of the valley, with no crashes, landslides or accidents and now we were here, in this parallel international universe.

by phyllidafurse

“Getting higher!”

Kaza to Tabo via Palangri Peak and Pin Valley

Sat 5th May

The big day had arrived. The last Deyzor breakfast consumed, the final coffee gulped, and our gear jammed into the back of the Toyota.

Had I got everything?

Standard preparation for any big day has to be nerves, let’s face it. But the beauty of time is that it passes, and suddenly you are on your way to the thing you have been anticipating for so long.

As we had been coming up Spiti Valley, Anil had pointed out a massive rocky promontory and said “we will go up there.” Oh will we…?! I remember thinking.

The weather was fair. In fact we were all excited to be on the road again, albeit the twisty high altitude dirt version. Jeremy was avidly hanging out of the window videoing everything, while I leaned pointlessly to the right, towards the inside of the mountain.

We were making our way up to somewhere near Demul, from where we were to commence the hike up Palangri Peak. It was to be our highest sortie yet, taking us up to nearly 4900m (that’s around 16000 feet in old money). Altitude sickness had been a slight concern back in the UK, but having now spent a week at over 3500m, with little sorties up and down, we seemed to have acclimatised.

We found a spot for the Toyota and disembarked, layers on, poles in hand, water and food in knapsacks etc . Looking up we saw snow towards the peak.

We started off well. The way was not too steep, but the melting snow had turned the ground soggy. Our boots began to collect great clods of mud, so that they got heavier and heavier. But Anil showed us a neat trick, which was to walk on the springy and spiky heather, and wipe our boots that way. It worked!

The peak looked deceptively close as we plodded silently up. The air was getting thinner, so we needed to pause now and then, but we were all keen to make it, so nobody rushed.

We had to walk closer and closer towards the edge of the mountain, it being the most obvious route, with unthinkable drops to the right. Whilst Anil relished this, Jeremy and I just concentrated hard on the job in hand and I did not look down.

Then we hit the snow line. To leave the edge of the precipice as well as continue up we needed to veer left, but to do that a blank patch of snow needed to be traversed. My vivid imagination seized upon the situation. How deep is it? Will one of us just go straight through and disappear for several if not hundreds of feet? Might we cause an avalanche? My past rapacious consumption of mountaineering books was tipping me. Not that I am of an anxious disposition.

Anil seemed gloriously free of such neuroses, (having ascended Palangri many times), whilst Jeremy trod stoically on, offering to lead and detailing Anil to follow up behind me.

Using a walking pole to test for depth Jeremy prodded the snow and then shuffled forward, one step at a time, simultaneously creating a path for us so that Anil and I were not plunging into new snow at each step. This was certainly reassuring. Occasionally the pole sank deep, but the rock was always found, and so, gradually we progressed.

Just before we hit on this method however, I began to question my own sanity. I was a consenting adult! I did not need to be in this position. It was not trying to prove anything! I tried hard not look at the receding icy slope below and think of the long drop down.

That familiar constriction of the throat took hold and I wanted to cry. I bleated my thoughts out loud. “I’m not enjoying this,” I said in full toddler mode.

Jeremy politely told me to calm down. My thoughts were unprintable, but I had to. Then – a moment of inspiration came. I simply sat down right where I was, in a hole in the snow, and fished out a bar of chocolate. Drawing breath, I ate the entire bar. Anil, somewhat amused, took a video.

Suddenly, life became bearable again, and I stood up and carried on, right to the top! We reached 4,900m.

It was wild and bleak up there. We circled a shrine and drank in the spectacle before us.

Spiti River lay somewhere far below, threading along the valley like a silver snake. Across from us the snow capped rocky Himalayan peaks were ranged like an army.

Jeremy was gaily romping round the shrine taking photographs. Anil beckoned me to the edge and bade me sit down cross legged next to him in semi lotus position. “Don’t be afraid!” he said. “Imagine the drop is just like water, only don’t touch it!” Hmm. We intoned ‘Om mani padme hum’ together, but mine came out vibrato. ‘Ah, interesting!’ my voice brain noted. (Note: the larynx is one’s very own emotional reservoir having a very high nerve to muscle ratio, which is why strange things happen to your pitch when you are upset!)

But back to reality. Time to descend. In our master’s steps we trod, attempting to retrace Jeremy’s path. This we safely did, springing from heather to heather en route to unclag the boots.

Rather easier on the way down, although you still had to concentrate!

A mere three hours from having left, we arrived back at the Toyota, ravenous but triumphant. No one had been sick or developed a headache. Hurrah!

Someone was rather pleased..

Slowly slowly Anil drove us back down. We had a long way to go to get to the valley floor. But we hadn’t gone far when we chanced upon a group of ladies sitting by the roadside, engaged in stirring tea and chatting. A couple of guys were also with them. As we slowed down, they beckoned us to join them.

So we pulled up and sat down with them. The ladies were full of smiles and some were knitting. They told us that we were the first to go up Palangri this season!! Another couple were stirring something in large pots. We were warmly greeted and offered either sweet or salty tea, along with torn hunks of traditional Tibetan bread, and smears of yak butter if we wanted it. Without a second thought we tucked straight in. It was delicious.

They were a great group. One of the ladies spontaneously stood up and did a little dance for Jeremy, who was videoing, as usual. When he played it back to her she was amazed and everyone then giggled uproariously as the phone was passed round.

Suddenly, another car appeared and a deathly hush fell over everyone. It was some officials checking up on who was where. A list of names was checked through. They were road workers. Satisfied, the officials moved on, accompanied by a collective exhalation from everyone else.

We really had to get going as it was a long way down and Jeremy was keen to fit in visiting Pin Valley before getting back to Tabo. We were in fact just beginning the long road home. Everyone waved cheerily and we left feeling warmed by the whole experience.

** *** *** **

It was another bumpy drive to get across the Spiti River and up into Pin Valley. Pin was completely different in feel from Spiti. It seemed to be more populated by yaks than humans, and the mountains seemed much closer and fiercer. The weather was grey and misty. In truth, all I could think about was a bath.

Anil took us about ten miles up the road as far as Guling. There is a monastery and a nunnery there where young boys and girls can be educated. It’s not a place you could easily leave, being a long way off the main Spiti highway! We parked the car and took a look around the monastery first of all. We took our shoes off to enter the temple. It was terribly cold underfoot and had begun to snow.

Opened by the Dalai Lama, the temple was new, spacious and colourful. We met one or two of the young monks walking about but otherwise it was very quiet.

Tummies were now rattling. We found Anil at a tiny home cooked momo shop and downed some freshly made ones with hot sauce. Just the job!

Next we visited the nunnery. A monk showed us inside their temple and then invited us for tea in a lovely warm communal room with a kitchen at one end and a bathroom off to the side. There was a stove right in the middle of it and mats all round the edge of the room. Having felt so tired from the climb I was humbled by the simple kindness as they enquired of Anil who we were and where we were headed. Everyone was incredibly cheerful. Even more strange in the relatively primitive surroundings was the large flat screen tv on which they were all watching video footage of traditional Tibetan dancing! How the new nustles up to the old!

Here is the Toyota parked outside the nunnery.

Soon it was time to leave and head back for the first stop on our way home, to Tabo, and the infamous geyser at the Maitreyor Hotel.

by phyllidafurse

“Getting high!”

Woke up feeling blissfully better!

We were just enjoying a cool sunny breakfast outside the Deyzor, watching the world go, by when Anil arrived, on a motorbike! “How are you?” he asked in his characteristically direct manner.”Much better!” Said I. “Hop on!” he said, so I did! Off we went, me pillion along the street. Such fun! (Where had I been all my life?)

After breakfast we headed up to Langza, the home of Lara Tsering, through whom we had booked the whole Spiti Valley trip. At 4500m there were plenty more ‘hairy pin’ bends to negotiate en route, but we were used to that by now. The weather was bright sunny and glorious. We were looking out for ibex, but instead we’re rewarded by a glimpse of the occasional ‘blue sheep’ (not very blue)…

Langza (population 150) was a high collection of white painted mud houses, set into the barren hillside, and connected by steep dirt roads. Most were insulated overhead by a dense thatch of mud and twigs. The weather in winter would be unimaginably bitter with nothing to protect you from the wind and no cosy style western central heating!! Today it looked and felt a special place, a world apart from what we knew.

We walked up to and round the magnificent Buddha, looking out, lord of all he surveyed…

Lara was not there but his sister in law kindly invited us in to take tea. We were also shown round his house, which was quite big. One of the rooms was up a ladder! We sat cross legged on the some mats on the floor as is usual up there. Anil was served some hot food, but we had already had already eaten, so we kept him company while he gladly wolfed. There were a couple of little ones on the scene, a babe in a basket in the corner, and a toddler, who was strapped to the lady’s back while she went about her chores.

The raw remoteness of this place was somehow a force in its own right. Faces glowed. People smiled. There was just the matter of living to get on with.

Having bid our farewells to Lara’s house, we continued on our winding high altitude circuit to the village of Komic. This is the highest village in the world to be connected by road, at 4500m. There was a monastery here (4600m), which we were shown round by this lovely fellow.

Set round a courtyard, it felt more like an active monastic set up than some of the others that we had visited. A few boys were walking about in their red robes, and greeted us respectfully.

We then took some tea at a tiny cafe, where the main items on the menu seemed to be toast in various guises with either chocolate spread or peanut butter!! You would need it up there.

We took some sea buckthorn tea, it supposedly having special health giving properties. Three young motor cyclists were also there and we exchanged a few giggles and hellos.

The population of Komic was even smaller: around 100. Again my mind boggled at the tough and lonely life up there. But then maybe that is just my narrow western perception kicking in.

Next stop was Hikim, 4400m. Here we were taken into the world’s highest post office (a tiny room with one window, in a mud building) and wrote some cards home, duly stamped by the ‘post master’ who looked as surprised as we did that anyone was there. Who should we bump into again? The bikers. We were all bent over our post cards, hastily scribbled in a mild state of hypoxia.

Hikim was positively large: population 290! We had a (slow) wander round.

After all of that we headed ‘home’ and back to the Deyzor in Kaza. We had a spectacular drive down – you could see the whole of the Spiti Valley, the flood plain below and the receding snow on the Himalaya. Perhaps I shall write more about it more one day, but it was, in every sense of the word, and ‘awesome’ day.