Wednesday, February 12, 2014

Encountering New Delhi

My tenth day in New Delhi already -- the days went by so fast. The Air India flight from Frankfurt took only a little more than seven hours. We directly went for the airport taxi services suggested by our host, either Meru, Mega or Easycab -- they were right outside airport. We were told that it should not cost more than 500 to Delhi center, in our case, Haus Khaz. We asked Meru first and were sent to a taxi who wanted to charge us 2500! Moving to the Mega cab company, our driver put on the meter. We could hardly understand each other and we were just saying IIT. He stopped several times to ask but finally we got there with the meter only at 400. 
After freshening up a bit, we were picked by our host for lunch at Naivedyem in Haus Khas village specialized in South Indian food. Had the Mixed Thali which was so good but much more than I could finish! It had a dosai, crepe-like bread in a cone shape, some Idlis, or white oblong  rice cake(reminds me of a snack we call page in the Philippines) and liitle plates of different types of curries, chutneys, rice and one sweet dish. I had a lassi together with it.  We went around the village and driving to and from the place was our first experience of Delhi traffic. Wow, was it something.

Ayurvedic massage in Delhi

Just had an ayurvedic massage in New Delhi. It was an experience! Before the massage, I had a consultation with the doctor first. He first took my pulse or pressed several times in my pulse area, then took my blood pressure on both arms telling me i was bordering on high blood pressure at 132/70.  He asked me what problems I was having and I told him about the pain in my knee and glutes. He said I was a water type and that I had a lot of air in my blood. He said there were too many things going on in my mind and my mind was going on all directions. He prescribed that I have a mrning walk everyday as well as do pranayama everyday for 15 minutes-- first the anulom for 10 minutes where you alternately breathe through one nostril then the other. After that, I was supposed to do another breathing exercise for 5 minutes called the bramrighet pranayama where i touch my thumbs lightly on the inner lobe of each ear, put my index and middle finger lightly over my eyes, inhale deeply then make a throaty sound, i presume ujjayi breathe, when i breathe out. He gave me an oil called when antharam thailam that i should massage all over my joints and leave for an hour, before or after yoga.
Next came the massage on what looked like an ancient hardwood massage table. I was given a head massage first with oil, then a face massage with more oil and yet more oil, warmed up and poured and rubbed all over the chest, the legs, the arms, then the back side. The oil smelled nutty and warm and had the scent of curry spices. When I was all over full of oil came another surprise. I was asked to sit in a wooden steam box.  The hot steam and my oiled body for 15 minutes i presume would remove all my aches and pains. Quite heavenly unreal feeling. Then a warm shower after. A must do in Delhi.

Friday, September 13, 2013

Rediscovering Reading

The first time I started traveling was through books. I first discovered books when I was in first grade, around the time I was maybe 7 or 8 years old.  My family was not really a reading family, so I had quite meager pickings.  I started reading our Britannica Encyclopedias, then went through the simplified classics standing around in our library shelves -- Jane Eyre, Pride and Prejudice, Wuthering Heights, even the Brothers Karamazov! I am sure I never really understood everything but I was completely enthralled.  There were also the short fairy tales of the Brothers Grimm and Hans Christian Anderson which I also pored through.  

From there, I hungered for more, so started reading books lying around -- which meant my mother's Mills and Boons romance novels, the Barbara Cartland romance series, as well as the Lucy Walker romance novelettes.  The Mills and Boons series were mostly set in the US, the Barbara Cartland ones were historical romances set in British court in the early 1900s while the Lucy Walker novels were set in the Australian outback.  These were also pretty interesting, giving me a glimpse of how people from other countries and other eras lived, and loved too.

When I was done with those and tired of all the sappy romance scenes traditionally ending in passionate embraces with the woman helpless in the crook of the man's strong muscled arms as their lips move toward each other -- I moved on to the thickest books I could find, meaning my older sisters' (or maybe their boyfriends' books) grand historical novels -- James Michener's Chesapeake as well as James Clavell's Shogun, Taipan, and Noble House. I was in the seventh grade or about 12 years old when I went through just about all of Ayn Rand's books -- starting with The Fountainhead where I was totally hooked, then Atlas Shrugged and the others.  I think these books of Ayn Rand impressed on me practically the opposite of the romance novels -- with its strong heroines and women with their own original minds and ideas, uncaring of societal stereotypes and limitations, it presented a more realistic view of a woman's role, i.e. certainly not a passive player.  I even went through a lot of Edgar Cayce books delving on reincarnation and how past lives could possibly have had a role in your present one. I then went on to all the mythology books I could find on Greek and Roman gods starting with Edith Hamilton's Mythology, this time reading about the triumphs and foibles of gods and humans.  Quite a mixed bag when I think about it now, but what I distinctly remember is how much I adored the written word that I spent time savoring each word, listening to it in my mind, hoping the book would never end.  This of course meant that I was reading most of the time. I even remember sitting by the bathroom floor at night reading by its light -- I could not leave our bedroom light on as my sister/roommate would get mad at me.  This also meant that my favorite subject was Reading (yes, it was a subject), and we had these reading sets with comprehension questions after, that I so looked forward to.

Later, I discovered and was blown away by the imagery of the magical realism novels of Latin American writers --  from Gabriel Garcia Marquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude, The Autumn of the Patriarch and everything in between, to Isabel Allende's House of the Spirits.  I continued on to African writers Chinua Achebe's Things Fall Apart and Amos Tuotola's Palm Wine Drinkard.  V.S. Naipul's House of Mr Biswas was another interesting read.  Then on to the achingly haunting Yukio Mishima's Sea of Fertility tetralogy, beginning with Spring Snow.  I remember how sad these made me feel, the power of these books, you want to curl up and rant at the hopelessness of life.  

Beat novellist Jack Kerouac's On The Road ushered in my next set of readings.  With my new sport of mountaineering, I went on to American outdoor/environmental writing -- Edward Abbey's The Monkey Wrench Gang and Desert Solitaire, books by Barbara Kingsolver such as High Tide in Tucson (still a favorite), Gary Snyder poems, Barry Lopez' Arctic Dreams, Bruce Chatwin's  Songlines, John Krakauer's Into Thin Air and Into the Wild

From my Golden Age of reading, I grew up and went on to the real world and actually did things instead of reading about them, and traveled those places I had only read about.  

Lately, I have been rediscovering reading.  Some of the reading I did was sparked by a television or movie series, such as the Stieg Larsson Millenium Series Trilogy which started with Girl with a Dragon Tattoo. Funny thing was that after I read it, I ended up in Sweden, and even walked Lisbeth Salander's steps (Stockholm's Millenium walking tour).  After watching the first movie, I continued reading the Harry Potter series as they came out.  After the first Hunger Games movie, I continued reading the next two books of the series.  The first season of Games of Thrones prompted me on to reading the rest of the Songs of Ice and Fire series of books.  I also quite enjoyed Eat, Pray, Love.  I try not to be snobbish about what I read, and read what I think I will enjoy.  Other readings are due to just what is in the library.  One of the things I do when I move to a new place is check out their public library, a wonderful system in Europe.  When I was learning Swedish, I even read the abridged version (in Swedish) of a funny crazy novel called The Hundred Year Old Man Who Climbed Out of his Window and Disappeared by Jonas Jonasson, as well as some novels of Hakan Nesser and Jan Gilliou. Sweden has really some terrific novellists of the crime/detective genre.  

O gmther  books I have recently read that I completely enjoyed are Half of the Yellow Sun by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, set in a Nigeria in turmoil, Zadie Smith's On Beauty and Jonathan Franzen's  The Corrections. Wow, these are beautiful books and must-reads.  I am starting now on Zadie Smith's NW which I am sure will be great.

Here's to more reading! I do have a Nook ebook reader, but prefer to hold on to the real deal.  I still savor each word and each page -- that will never change.

Monday, September 9, 2013

Glacier-hiking in Zinal, Switzerland


This year, I luckily had a chance to go glacier-hiking in Zinal, Switzerland.  I had only gone once before about 3 years ago. In all honesty, it was beyond my comfort zone.

I enjoy hiking and have been a member of a mountaineering group since university. I have even gone hiking on the Annapurna circuit, with the highest point I reached being the Thorung La Pass at about 17,700 feet (5394 meters), but I guess, ice and snow are not really my element and the thought of crevasses puts a lump in my throat.

As a precursor to the hike, we watched a film on Killian Jornet called the Summits of My Life.  Killian is a famed extreme athlete, practically bagging all the most challenging and difficult mountain ultramarathons on earth.  The film relates that after having won all these races, his next quest was to climb alpine-style with minimum resources, some of the most difficult summits in Europe in deep snow, involving hiking then skiing.  I guess seeing him so alive and in the moment -- with one segment showing him running like a gazelle over thigh-deep snow and mountain ridges in running shoes, a pair of shorts and a flimsy-looking windbreaker, and another segment on top of a huge mountain and fearlessly going over the edge and skiing down its steep side -- gave me pause on all the fears I had.

I have to stop being so afraid -- fear stops one from living, from being in the here and now.  It is not to say that one becomes brash and overconfident, there has to always be that deep humility and respect for nature and the elements.  In one scene, Killian is seen lovingly running his hand over a flat rock on a steep mountainside and placing his cheek on its surface, as if saying he and the rock are one, and for mother nature to keep him in its embrace.  In the film, we meet Stephane, another extreme skier who we find out later has met his fate on the mountain. We accept the risks that goes with a life lived to the full.

We start our walk in the dark at 5:30 am from a parking lot in Grimentz, and reach the mountain hut, Cabane de Moiry at 2825 meters at 7 am. From here, we hike a short way through rocks to reach the start of the ice and snow field.  Here we put on our crampons, bring out our ice axes, rope up -- connecting 4 people per rope via harnesses, and start our walk through the glacier arriving at the summit of Pigned de la Le after 4 hours, at 11 am.  The 360 degree vistas of mountaintops are breathtaking.

Roped up on the glacier


Pigne de la Le summit

My glacier hike to Pigne de la Le was surely not even a hundredth of the difficulty of Killian's challenges but it was an attempt to go beyond what I thought I was capable to do. I guess that is one thing that one must always seek -- for indeed, you can do much more than you think you can.  But you must believe it and you must believe in yourself.



Monday, February 25, 2013

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow


The first time I experienced snow was in New York. On that day as I walked to the subway stop, I remember stopping to look up at the sky as the pure white, quiet snow fell around me, on my face and onto my warm black trenchcoat.  I stuck out my tongue and tasted my first snowflake.  I caught one and looked at this tiny speck in wonder as it indeed was how snowflakes are drawn -- with those complex crystal designs, each one unique and unlike the other.

Later, I have lived in several countries and gone through more winters.  It seems that the first winter I experience in very country I have moved to is one of the hardest and longest there.  In any case, there is always something new.  In Switzerland, I learned to cross-country ski and snowshoe. In  Sweden, I went cross-country skiing on a frozen lake and lived through their deep dark winters when the sun rises at 10 am and sets at 3 pm, and there is darkness for 18 hours in a day.

Here in Germany this winter, I made my first snowman!



 



Saturday, February 9, 2013

The Cordilleras: Wandering the Way


Here is the original version of an article I wrote a number of years ago about a hike in the Cordilleras, in the Northern Philippines. It was published in a national newspaper with some editorial changes that, I feel, changed the tone of the content a bit, and so I put it back in its original form in my blog.  I recently returned to this mountain and the magic was still there, albeit tainted a bit by the new settlements of people in what is supposedly, a national park.  One of my journeys...

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      I have climbed Mount Pulag more than a dozen times, and always, she has shown me a different face. The first time, she is motherly and serene, gently embracing us with a soft sunrise as we sing songs of welcome and praise. One other time, she is angry and vindictive as she lashes out with furious sheets of rain and howling winds, rattling our pole tents till they give way and we shiver in misery at our bivouac camp. Another time, she radiates with wisdom, as we silently trudge through undulating grasslands dotted with zen-like pools of clear water. On rare times, she mesmerizes us with spectacular sunsets of myriad colors streaking the sky as clouds roll down her sides like waterfalls. But most of the time, she is a mixture of both, giving and taking, as we accept and adapt to her moods.

      Mount Pulag, sacred mountain of the Ibalois and the highest point in Luzon at 9,600 feet lies at the center of the Cordillera Trail, smack on the border of three provinces. Near the summit, the trail separates into four points: to the south lies Babadak where most groups begin their hike; to the west lies the summit and further down, the town of Kabayan, Benguet; to the east lies Nueva Vizcaya; and, to the north lies Ifugao. And this, the Cordillera Way is connected by a network of trails linking
sitios one to the other.


      My climbing partner and I plan a hike through this system of trails, following a route that would start at Kabayan, Benguet, up through the steep Akiki Trail to Mount Pulag, and end at Hungduan, Ifugao, from where we can take a ride home to Manila. We estimate that it would take about 5 days. A cursory look at a map tells us we need to head north, then eastward. We do not bring a map to the climb, only a picture of the terrain in our minds.

      But my story begins after our hike to the summit of Mount Pulag, when we shed our mountaineer skins and wander the way. Our first stop is Lebbeng, Ifugao, perched at the side of a mountain about 6 hours hike from our summit camp and populated by a mere 4 families. When we get there, stooped and barefooted Nana Luisa, seventyish, gathers kamote at a sloping little plot of land behind her hut. A cold drizzle falls while we wait for her to finish her chores. She finally comes down with a load of kamote in her cayabang (a basket with a forehead strap) which as we estimate later, weighs at least forty pounds. Her husband, Apo Tibaldo, comes in soon after from their uma (field) some distance away. We ask if we may stay the night and they offer to let us stay at their sons’ hut, as their sons are elsewhere looking for work. They offer us their dinner of boiled kamote with mountain tea and brown sugar, while we cook our meal of corned beef and rice. We sit in front of the fire inside their hut and as we eat and our eyes water from the smoke, the Apo jokingly remarks “dito iniiyakan namin ang kamote” (“here, we cry for kamote”).

      The next day, Arthur, his son-in-law, worried that we may not find the way, accompanies us to Tinoc, through a shortcut which takes us about 5 hours. In Tinoc, there is a big event, a district meet, and unfortunately, at 3 in the afternoon, just about a hundred percent of the males have imbibed their alcohol. We stay with Brando’s family. Little by little, Brando’s house fills up with inebriated men curious about what they believe to be our “mission”. They cannot understand why we are just walking through and one of them, accuses us straight out of carrying explosives in our backpacks.

     We are completely clueless until it finally comes out that Tinoc was one of Yamashita’s last stands and a great number of treasure hunters had come and sought out his elusive gold. We explain that we are passing through, hiking on our way to Hungduan and our packs are large and heavy because we have to carry a tent, sleeping bags, cooking utensils, a camp stove and enough food for a 5 day hike. They prepare a dinner of pinicpican (a native chicken dish) for us but are still unconvinced about our identities and our purpose. And even after we excuse ourselves to sleep, they continue their drinking and loud discussions, still believing that we are deceiving them and that we are there to get the gold. A retired manong, who earlier in the night claims the cement floor in his drunken stupor, wails out a lullaby “ay ay salidummay, salidummay diway” in his booming baritone. He rants and raves the rest of the night in a dialect I cannot understand, and curses as he knocks over furniture trying to find the door in the deep dark night. I clutch my flashlight to my chest and leave my fate to the heavens.

      I wake up enervated the next day, just as if I had a hangover. After that sleepless night, a strong black brewed coffee revives me. Our host simply says “lasing ako kagabi” (“I was drunk last night”) as if that would make up for all the accusations they had hurled at us the previous day. I think to myself that I would not want to go back to this place, but at the same time, I do not believe that all of Tinoc’s inhabitants are this way. Maybe it was just a case of bad timing: just too much alcohol around. We leave at 7:30 in the morning, and walk ourselves hard to make up for the previous day’s bad trip. By midmorning, I feel much better as the exercise and cool air revives me and relegates the previous day’s events to nothingness.

     We pass Tawang, Gawang, then Binablayan, where we take lunch near a river, overlooking an authentic Ifugao village. A group of men are sitting across a rangtay (hanging bridge) and I cautiously look them in the eye as I say “lumabas kami pay” (“just passing through”), which they answer with a grunt. Along the trail, a man passes us with just an umbrella slung across his shoulders, he had left Abatan on the other side of Tinoc at 7 am to get to Kiangan at 7 pm – a 12 hour hike -- to visit a friend -- no sweat. He excuses himself as he hurries past to his assignation.

      This time, wary of the previous day’s events, we prefer to set up camp rather than stay with the locals. It is nearly dark when we finally find a flat piece of ground a little way up a hill in Wang-Wang. Around 7 pm, a woman and young girl pass by. They have just come from Tinoc for the meet, and are on their way home. We ask her if it is all right to camp here. Manang Alice assents but tries to convince us to come with her -- why here, she says, when she has a home a short distance away -- we can sleep there. But stung by yesterday’s experience, we are content in our simple camp. We tell her that we will pass by the next day and she promises to show us the way to Hungduan.

      Early the next day, we break camp and go to Manang Alice’s. On the way, we pass by another old woman’s home, and her strong lined face breaks out into a smile as she gives us a lukban (pomelo) to take with us, urging us to bring more. We are led by Gerard, young son of Manang Alice, to the start of the old Spanish Trail up in the mountains which will lead us to Hungduan. Again we pass countless rivers and climb up and down countless mountains.

     Here, when you ask for directions, they hardly say left or right, they say pasangat (going up) or salog (going down). The trail goes up, then down, then up a little more, then down to the river. Here, there are so many rivers. We are enticed to take a dip in one -- it is ice-cold, but revitalizing.

     We stop to talk to a group of men building a house. They point out Hungduan in the distance, only, there is a wide chasm that separates it from where we are. The winding dirt road where we are leads to Hungduan, but the men suggest that we instead take a shortcut which goes down maybe a thousand feet to a terraced valley, then up a mountain to Hungduan. I choose the road since I had had enough of ups and downs.

     Bad choice, I realize, after half an hour of unending curves and bends -- it is 5 times the distance as it contours around mountains to get to the other side. A plus is that we pass by two woodcarvers. We snack on pomelo while we chat with Marina who carves wooden dragon masks for sale in Banaue. I buy 2 pieces of masks for 20 pesos. A little way more and we pass a man who peacefully sits Indian-style on cut logs slung across the seats in an open-walled waiting shed facing a grand view of mountains, while carving Egyptian woman cups of adawe wood.

      Four hours later, we are in Hungduan, Ifugao, our goal. A jeep passes here to Banaue, from where we can go to Manila. The townspeople are concerned as to where we would sleep as the regular jeep leaves 4 am the next morning. Some young women quietly run around until they have arranged for us to sleep at the town’s guest house. Luke, the municipal engineer, shows us our lodging and tells us stories about how he is a woodcarver from Hapao, who later takes engineering.

      Our climb is a learning and getting in touch with nature. You realize how petty your troubles are in the face of such simplicity. You learn that you need not fight, but not fighting does not mean giving in. All those zen books will not teach you the zen in the heart of the Cordilleras.

     Always, when I feel the world is too much with me, then I know that it is time to find solace in nature. Nature heals sick spirits. As I walk the Cordillera way, my spirits lift, my soul soars and I am whole again.

Friday, January 18, 2013

Oh, Lance, how you let me down...

I just saw the first part of Lance Armstrong's interview with Oprah this morning.  My reaction was sadness.

Oh, Lance, how you let me down. I read your book "It's not About the Bike," followed your career, cheered as you raced down the Tour d' France lines to victory.  I believed in you, and looked to your example -- that one can overcome all odds -- a single-parent childhood, even cancer -- and be who you were meant to be.  Not just a millionaire, not just the best bike rider in the world, but one with integrity -- one who sticks to his principles even as others give in to weakness.

I watched as you calmly and confidently denied all charges against you, and wondered -- why are those guys picking on you? And thought -- is it because you had redefined the boundaries of what the human body could do? But then, you are beyond human, superhuman -- a god? Maybe you thought so yourself,  and then comes the hubris.

I guess it is not so difficult to succumb to the temptation of seeing yourself on top of the world -- a master of the universe. How far you need to fall now...

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I just watched a continuation of Lance's interview, and now my reaction is one of outrage.  How could anyone do something like that? Live a lie and shove this lie right into the face of the public.  The public can not be blamed for having believed him -- he was playing this perfect role of innocence, as he himself said "a perfect story".  I could see no remorse, no apologies. No regret for having caused pain in people's lives -- those people he tore down and sued for having told the truth and stuck to the truth.  And how about those people who believed in him and looked up to him.  All a lie.  All a lie.  Really reminds me of ancient Greek and Roman mythology -- the protagonist is full of hubris, extreme pride.  Then comes the fall.