This Turkey has returned home after a week away…  We got back on Saturday from four days in Istanbul and three in Cappadocia.  It was a great week, in spite of miserable December weather.  Istanbul is a remarkable city, well worth a repeat visit at some point in the not-too-distant future.

What were a few highlights (or, at least, notable moments)?

I still have bruised ribs after being very vigorously scrubbed clean (and given some kind of impromptu chiropractic treatment) by a hairy near-naked man in an ancient hamam (bath-house) built in 1450. And all this while being observed by an over-interested, creepy fat man — while he wasn’t busy farting, burping, snoring or noisily scratching at himself “down there.”

This coffee virgin finally “did it”, drinking a cup of strong Turkish Kahve. If I was ever going to do it, it only seemed right to do it in Turkey. After all, the Ottomans apparently brought coffee to the West at the siege of Vienna in 1529. Taken with a good dose of sugar (you have to tell them how much to put in before they make it), I can actually say I enjoyed it, although the afterglow and tingling skin of the hamam experience was possibly clouding my judgment.

I drank liquoricey raki liquor, and also (surprisingly) really liked the “standard” beer of Turkey, called Efes Pilsen. (I say surprisingly because I rarely like the typical beers of places I visit, as my tastes lean towards ales and darker beers that are less widely appreciated by the masses.)

We visited quite a few mosques, including the spectacular Blue Mosque as well as several of the less-touristy ones. They were beautiful and reverential places. We (briefly) awakened every morning around 6am to the pre-dawn call to prayer (known as the adhan) echoing from minaret loudspeakers.  I enjoyed these chants: admittedly more so in the city’s high-end sound system than on the tinny speakers of the Göreme mosque. However, when hiking amidst the fairy chimneys of Cappadocia, it was mesmerizing to hear the way these trebley chanted prayers merged and diverged as they arrived on the wind from nearby towns.

We visited sultan’s palaces, a harem (which was more family-oriented than the eroticized visions the word may bring to Westerners’ minds) and wandered through incredible markets, all while being hassled by countless vendors on the “tout”. We apparently saw the actual staff that Moses used to part the Red Sea, and the arm of (if I recall correctly) John the Baptist. It was definitely somebody’s arm encased in gold; at least it had been, a good while back (you can see bony fingers poking out).

We had great mezzes and other wonderful food, although sometimes with a tad too much raw onion and cucumber for our liking. There are some fantastic restaurants in Istanbul, and at low season we never had to reserve or wait…just wander in at any hour and have a great meal. Incredibly, for a country in which everyone seems to smoke, Turkey has done the civilized thing and banned smoking in public places, so you aren’t turned into leather in restaurants and bars (unless you hang around outside)… If only Spain would catch the hint: pretty much every other country has done it by now, so why do we still have to be the cool rebels-without-a-cause?

We survived various taxi/bus rides, including several which involved driving a) at high speeds, b) the wrong way on one-way streets, and c) jumping the median to change direction (several times) on freeways. We also bounced along the waves of the Bosphorous on a little wooden tour boat, and thankfully no one got seasick (although a few may have gotten hypothermia). Turkish Airlines got us comfortably to and from Nevsehir, albeit with a dramatic “air avoidance” maneuvre that gave us a good scare on the way home — must have been another plane on an intersecting flight path(?). Yikes, that woke me up and got my legs shaking even more than the Turkish coffee…

We met a Canadian writer (GG Award winner and Member of the Order of Canada) who was on a “working holiday” at our inexpensive but decent hotel. He was there to get away from his distractions at home, working on revisions to his latest novel.

We learned tons of history — I often glaze over historical notes, but this turned out to be so interesting that I couldn’t ignore it.  We had the most incredible guide in Cappadocia, who gave us the entire history of Turkey from around 10,000 BC to the present day (to “EU” or not to “EU”?), all over the course of several hours as we drove from one site to another. He also gave us lessons in linguistics and the complexities and oddities of the Turkish language (which is closer to Chinese and Japanese than to any Indo-European language…I was surprised to hear TV announcers speaking what almost sounded like Japanese). I’d always thought that most things we take for granted today were invented by “the Scots”, but it turns out they were brought to us by “the Turks” (or so they claim ;-).

We saw cave churches and the famous “fairy chimneys” of Cappadocia which were (and still are) home to many people; they’re also where many early Christians hid out from their persecutors. They are phallic in shape, not unlike some of the spires of Catalunya’s Montserrat or Alberta’s hoodoos, although bigger and more robust (of course!). They are made of tough stuff — volcanic tuff, in fact — deposited by various massive volcanic eruptions in the region eons ago and then worn down by water and wind. We did the requisite magical balloon ride at daybreak above the Göreme valley, in spite of it being December. Gaudí may have never it as far as Turkey for natural inspiration, but you better believe he would have loved it. Here there were Christians making organic-shaped churches more than a thousand years before his Sagrada Familia. (You see, maybe the Turks did invent everything!)

Turkey is a remarkable country and Istanbul is a city of contrasts and contradictions, full of life and openness and craziness and commerce.  While I was there (actually, on the flight home), I read Nicholas Woodsworth’s “The Liquid Continent” (Volume III — Istanbul), which was a fun and insightful (and short) read.

More remarkably than anything else (at least it would be for your “average” tourist), we didn’t buy a single knick-knack, scarf, piece of clothing, jewelry, fabric, ceramic, metalwork, “evil eye stone” (aka Nazar), hat, shoe, slipper, harem outfit, fez, flag or carpet. (Full disclosure: we did buy one thing to take home — a bag of chocolate-covered coffee beans.)

A few spots to recommend in Istanbul: (if you can find it) go for dinner at Helvetia, an almost unmarked restaurant not far off Istikal Caddesi. Not your typical restaurant; it’s lively, full of locals, students and artists, and (surprise, surprise?) inexpensive. We also really loved the restaurant Adonin, on a side street near Aya Sofya. The service was friendly and excellent, as was the food (among the most friendly we’ve tasted, in fact). We befriended Yousuf, who works outside, bringing clients in to the restaurant, in a most atypical, soft-spoken way (this is what won me over). He told us he works two jobs, totaling 18-20 hour days every day. He also recommended the hamam we went to — we wanted a less touristy one, more for locals (like my leering, burping and scrotum-scratching friend, I suppose).

Turkey has tons of Spanish visitors (maybe more than any other kind of tourist, it often seemed, perhaps because our visit coincided with the December puente), so we heard tons of Spanish — both from tourists and from those savvy goods-hawkers…many of whom seem fluent enough in every known human language to sell to any potential tourist. that may cross their path. It’s no good saying “sorry, I don’t speak (insert language here)” to get away from them; they’ll just start trying every language they know until they hit one you do speak.

P.S. I love going to supermarkets in other countries, seeing how they are different from (and how they are similar to) the ones in my country. And I love seeing the different products. I almost bought a bulk package of hot Turkish paprika with the brand name: Economic Boy. Yum, spicy and timely.

I just found out that Air Canada will be flying non-stop from Barcelona to Montreal next summer (Wednesdays, Fridays and Sundays from June 3 until October 18, 2010 — other days the flight goes to Toronto). The past few years they’ve been experimenting with service to/from Madrid in the summer season, so it’s about time they got here. This is great news (for me, and for my friends and family who will surely take advantage of the convenience to come and visit…ha ha. ;-).

New News

Last summer, jellyfish (aka las medusas in Spanish or les meduses in Catalan) ruled the waters of the Mediterranean. It looks like this year will bring more of the same, because we saw huge schools (if this term applies to jellyfish as it does to fish) of them pulsing through the water. White ones, large translucent ones, ones that seemed to be made of amorphous black disks.

And how did we see these swimmer-torturers? Fortunately, from the safety of a boat. This weekend we did something new — my Dulcinea and I took a sailboat for a couple of days. Sailed up the coast from Barcelona some 20 (nautical) miles (~37km) to Arenys de Mar. There, we docked in the marina and explored the town, which was a bit sleepy as the summer madness (fortunately) hasn’t kicked in yet.

We “overnighted” (a fancy term for “slept” ;-) on the boat before returning back to Barcelona. In Arenys, we enjoyed drinks at sunset with Bob, a delightful Scottish man (whose sailboat was tied up next to ours) who is just wrapping up eight years (!) of sailing every nook and cranny of Mediterranean. He’s headed back to France to de-mast his sailboat and cruise it up the Canal du Midi, which he came down in 2001. Then finally, (mast back up and) across the Channel and the home stretch to Glasgow. When I commented admiringly that he must know every inch of his boat, he replied with a grin: “More like I hate every inch of it!”

The weather was beautiful: sunny but not hot. In fact, cool enough to require a jacket at night. It was a new adventure for both of us, and somehow those two days of sailing under a bright sun made it feel like we’d taken a week’s vacation! Back home, the solid floor of our flat seemed to rock and swell beneath us as we ate dinner, so I guess even in that short time we got our sea-legs.

Middle-Aged News

I discovered that my favourite (Montreal-based) singer Lhasa de Sela finally had a new album out, her third, after a six-year hiatus. Although it was available on the Spanish iTunes site, this was one case where I wanted the booklet and a tangible disc in my hands. I went down to FNAC the next day to pick up a copy. I’ve been enjoying it ever since, but I do wish she hadn’t chosen to write and sing exclusively in English this time — I loved the Spanish and French songs (as well as the English) on her wonderful earlier albums The Living Road and La Llorona. Nonetheless, I still really am moved by her voice and the poetry of her lyrics.

Having completed my Canadian taxes for the end of April (and, as an ex-resident, hopefully for the last time), I am now settling down to…enjoy doing another set: the Spanish income taxes, which are due at the end of June!

Meanwhile, my experience with Spanish bureaucracy took a wonderful turn for the better a few weeks back, when I went to get an international driver’s licence. I had fussed about filling the forms, photocopying documents, worrying about the fact that I didn’t yet have my new residency card (even though it’s approved and in the process of “being physically manufactured”)… When I got to the motor vehicles department, I somehow was able to bypass all lines, all number-taking and waiting. Even the pre-filled form wasn’t necessary — they had them there on-site for you to fill out if necessary. There was a special “line” (which, amazingly, was empty) for international licences. There was no need to go out to a bank with a modelo de tasas to pay — they had their own cashiers on-site. After that, I went upstairs where a woman asked if I had all the required elements (I had done my homework, thus had all my proverbial ducks in a row). The woman shrugged (doing the universal sign of: “whatever”) when I tried to explain about my in-progress residency renovation, and I actually left the building in less than fifteen minutes, with a freshly-made licence in hand!

Old News

A couple of weeks back, we stayed the long weekend in Arnes with a group of friends and their kids, hiking around Els Ports Natural Park. Ancient towns on hillsides. Honey, traditional farming, a 2000-year-old olive tree. Countless streams, bowls, waterfalls, all surrounded by vertical walls of limestone. And crystal clear water, which is more than can be said of the plastic-bag-(and-jellyfish-)riddled Mediterranean waters near Barcelona. Yet another beautiful break from the “drudgery” that is living in Barcelona…ha ha.

Berlin

We spent a wonderful five days (but could have done without the pollen allergies) in Berlin over the Easter long weekend. I’d never been there, and was duly impressed…a big city that is very accessible (thanks to great public transport), has lots of great food at good prices (we mostly ate “typically German” Thai and other South-East Asian food ;-), is very “arty” with a broad assortment of galleries and museums, is in touch with its history (interpret this as you wish) and has loads exciting architecture. Hmm…sounds a lot like Barcelona, except we don’t have such an abundance (and low price) of Thai and other South-East Asian food.

We saw many of the “required” Berlin elements… Brandenburg Gate, Reichstag (outside only; line-ups were too big and we were too late reserving — busy Easter weekend — for an inside tour), memorial to the victims of the Holocaust, Tiergarten park, Pergamon museum with its incredible displays of Greek, Babylonian and Muslim art and architecture, Potsdamer Platz (the dramatic new Sony centre), Topography of Terror, Berlin Wall, Checkpoint Charlie (we didn’t explicitly go to see it, as it’s a real tourist trap, but we did pass by), various churches, Kunsthaus Tacheles (artist colony/”squat”), various markets, beer gardens, brewpubs…

Not to mention Potsdam, Sanssouci park and its palaces, … Oh yes, more UNESCO World Heritage sites to check off the list (ha ha; as if I’m so casual and humdrum).

I found Berlin’s war memorial very powerful and moving…

A highlight for me was something most tourists don’t see: a guided visit to the private collection of Christian “I collect art that I don’t understand” Boros. The collection is housed inside a remarkable building called “The Bunker”, which was built during WWII as a bomb shelter for 2000 people living in the area (and folks from the nearby train station). It survived two direct hits during the Allied bombardment (in those days you could survive to say that, when your roof was made of three metres of reinforced high-grade concrete).

Later, the bunker was occupied by the Soviets and then was used as a prison for the German secret police. Eventually it was used to store tropical fruit (at this stage of life it was nicknamed the “banana bunker”). After reunification, it became home to rowdy techno and fetish parties, all while geting “dolled up” by graffiti artists. It eventually (in 2003) was purchased by the wealthy advertising mogul Boros, renovated (with a careful eye to preserving its history) and given a new life as a private gallery. It can only be visited on weekends by private appointment (I booked several months ahead, and it was already nearly booked up).

The building was exciting, and the many art pieces on display inside were also well worth a look (and controversial, in some cases). It helped to have a wonderful guide talk to us in detail about the artists and their works. While I discovered many artists I hadn’t previously known, I particularly enjoyed a good number of works by Olafur Eliasson. The Boros Bunker hasn’t been open long, and their plan is to change the collection on display annually (seems Boros owns much more than one bunker’s-worth of art). It’s definitely worth seeing if you’re interested in history and/or contemporary art (or what very wealthy people do with their money).

Line-ups

In other news, last week I finally finished jumping through the multifarious hoops and received confirmation of my residency renovation. Yesterday, in the final phase of this process, I went back (read about my previous visit) to the comisaría on Balmes with my carefully checked and re-checked set of originals and photocopies of various documents, plus carnet-sized photos. In spite of arriving before they opened, I enjoyed a huge line-up that wrapped around three sides of the block (probably about 200m long; aka over two hundred individuals or families). After that, almost four hours waiting (first in line on the street, then in the police courtyard (in a cordoned-off area of a noisy parking garage full of chairs and exhaust fumes), finally inside the building with a new sequence number). At last, it’s all done — best of all, I won’t have to do this again for two years, this time!

It’s not that I expected to have my application denied, but nonetheless “you never know until you know,” and it’s a relief to have it all sorted (a full month after my previous residency expired). Now I just have to go back (to a different police station) in a month to pick up my new residency card — after paying yet another processing fee of course. I’m not complaining (much); I have things better than lots of people, that’s for sure. As I like to say: I may not be welcome, but at least I’m approved.

Trekking Day “-1″ (Saturday)

Fly: Barcelona to Delhi, via Zurich (~7000km)
“Sleep”: No-Man’s-Land, Delhi (237m) / Airborne, Nepal (~11500m)

What were we (or was I, at least) so anxious about? Mostly about the Indian visa (or our deliberate lack thereof). We were flying to Kathmandu via Delhi, on two itineraries and different airlines, and I’d tried to find out whether we’d need a visa for the six-hour period we’d be sitting at the airport. In theory, both of us (Spanish and Canadian) do need a visa to visit India, even if only for transit. However, I’d heard that you could do a visa-less transition at the Delhi airport, if you met a bunch of conditions. For example: having a ticket on the first available flight to your destination; not needing to change terminals; being escorted through the airport by airline staff. But would this work on two itineraries and airlines? Would our luggage get properly re-tagged?

A month prior to the trip, I’d tried to contact the Indian Consulate in Barcelona (no luck), then finally managed to speak with someone at the Embassy in Madrid. The answers I got were not definitive: “Yes, it should be possible.” Reassuringly (and more conclusively), IATA’s web site told me it was possible, though I should “contact carrier(s) concerned to check if transit is possible”. I did this, both with Swiss (on which we were arriving) and Jet Airways (on which we were departing). Neither gave a definitive answer or explanation of how it worked. Swiss told me “not to worry”, that we should speak to the agents meeting our flight. But they insisted we must be sure to tell the check-in staff at Barcelona to tag our baggage through to our final destination!

When we arrived at the airport in Barcelona, the check-in agent didn’t understand what we were asking. He said “not to worry”, and tagged the bags to Delhi. This gave us a feeling of dread, that our precious trekking cargo wouldn’t arrive in Kathmandu with us (we wore our most irreplaceable items: hiking boots). During our connection in Zurich, I queried a Swiss information person, who — once he understood what I was asking — looked quite concerned. He gave the impression we might be screwed (not his precise words), and the anxious expression on his face did not say “don’t worry”, which until then had been Swiss’ mantra. I’d tried to believe that at least we’d make it through Delhi okay, so I could focus my worrying on our luggage. But after speaking to this man, everything was up in the air again — after all, he was more concerned about our lack of Indian visas than our luggage. Great.

When we arrived in Delhi, we spoke with the Swiss staffer who met the flight. After a bit of confusion and passing us to various people, a nice woman wrote down our passport numbers, onward ticket information and luggage tag numbers. We repeated our concerns about the luggage, but she told us “not to worry”. It seemed to be a repeating theme, and one which I quickly adopted: in Nepal we discovered this is said (something that sounds like): sumase chai-na.

After all the other connecting passengers were noted down, the woman led us — like a schoolteacher at the museum with a remarkably orderly class — past a security checkpoint (they waved us through) to the no-man’s-land where we’d spend the night. It had washrooms, bright fluorescent lights, two small snack vendors, and some not-fancy-but-at-least-reclining chairs (we were lucky to find two side-by-side). People of all nationalities, waiting for flights to places like Rwanda, Beijing, Toronto and Kathmandu chatted away loudly. Others covered their faces and tried to sleep. It was cold.

Staff from various airlines would occasionally appear and call out passengers for their flights: “Anyone for Newark? Anyone for Kabul?” Much confusion, people asking each other if anyone had come yet to ask about their flight. Because with some of the agents’ accents, it was nearly impossible to understand the destinations. Announcements in airports must be impossible to understand by definition — even when not coming over the intercom. After several hours, Jet Airways staff showed up (this was 3am or something) and started looking for folks travelling to Kathmandu. They took our e-ticket printouts and passports (yikes!) and disappeared for another few hours.

On the recommendation of the travel clinic in Barcelona, we weren’t taking Malaria medication, since the mountainous regions of Nepal are safe, and Kathmandu is low-risk. However, there certainly is risk in some areas, and Delhi is one of them. While I tried to rest my eyes, I’d occasionally open them to find a small mosquito gliding past. I say glide because they don’t buzz about erratically as they do in Canada. They may carry Malaria but at least they seem very tame compared to our fast, aggressive monsters. Shhh, close your eyes, get what rest you can: remember the mantra: “Don’t worry…”

Trekking Day “0″ (Sunday)

Fly: Delhi to Kathmandu (~820km)
Sleep: Hotel Manang, Kathmandu, Nepal (1316m)

I’d never heard of Jet Airways until I started looking online for flights from India to Kathmandu. It turns out they’re one of the nicer airlines in the world! It was founded in 1993 and has won many airline awards, including “Best Indian Airline” in Sep. 2008. It has one of the youngest aircraft fleets in the world (average plane age 4.3 years), and our 737-800 (or -900?) was extremely comfortable. The staff were excellent. It helped that I’d (almost unknowingly) booked business class tickets. They were only marginally more expensive than the economy seats, and happened to be the only ones available that gave me the dates and times I wanted. This turned out to be a huge treat — excellent service, great food (even on such a short flight; less than two hours).

As we flew over the rice fields of the broad Kathmandu valley, we got our first view of the Himalaya range to the north. We could see Dhaulagiri (8167m), Annapurna (8091m), Manaslu (8163m) — although at this point they were just names to me. We came through a few bumpy patches to land at Kathmandu, but at the last moment the pilot suddenly cranked the throttle and we roared back up. There was a storm passing through and he couldn’t see the runway. We went into a holding pattern for probably a half hour. He told us we’d likely have to return to Lucknow in India (before we ran out of fuel), but he’d make one more attempt once he was given a slot. I made the requisite groaner about us hopefully having some “luck, now.” We continued to circle, and the gentle bumps of cloud (and utter exhaustion) lulled me to sleep. I was rudely awakened by a loud bang and thump, and in my disoriented state it took me a moment to realize we’d landed. My heart was racing, and we were in Nepal. What luck!

Nepal requires all visitors to have a visa, but (unlike India) you can get one upon arrival at the airport. I’d almost sent our passports to Madrid to get visas ahead of time, but they were considerably more expensive in Spain (55 Euros versus 40 USD at the Kathmandu airport; in addition you’d need to pay for a courier service). Seemingly no air conditioning at this airport, so we joined a queue of 20 to 30 sweating people, forming two lines (a hundred more behind, still filling application forms). It turned out that these two lines were for paying, but afterwards our line “merged” (that was the idea) into the other one, where a chain of officials processed the visa in assembly-line fashion.

The whole thing was chaotic, with no one managing the desperate, grumpy horde of tourists. People pushed forward, cut people off, acted ridiculously. Some very rude Germans forced their way to the front. But sweet retribution came when it turned out they’d missed one part of the form. The officer rejected them, and back they went as the crowd pressed past. The look on their faces was priceless, and some small bit of karma in the universe was balanced.

Visas obtained, we miraculously found our baggage lying in a giant pile of bags downstairs, beside the luggage carousel. The zippers were sealed shut with wire from the “warehouse” where they were stored in Delhi. Inside, nothing was missing. A man from the trekking company met us as promised, holding up a sign with my name. He led us to a car (and driver) in the parking lot, placed yellow flower necklaces around our necks, and we drove into the city.

Kathmandu is chaos. On the half-hour drive from the airport to our hotel in the “touristy” Thamel district (where it seems all the hotels are situated), we are assaulted by a sea of colour, smell, dust and heat. Poverty. Tiny children play in the dirt on the edge of a road that literally swims with swerving, constantly-honking cars, trucks and buses.

Dulcinea is not fazed by all this — she’s been to India and Africa several times. To places that are “worse than this”. But it is my first trip to a really poor third-world country. Nepal’s GNI per capita makes it the 30th poorest in the world. Far below Trinidad and Tobago and not even on the same page as Chile or Argentina, other relatively “poor” countries I’ve been to. But the Gross National Income at “purchasing-power-parity” (of $1500/person/year — to compare: Spain $25k and Canada $34k) is merely an average, and many people don’t even see that amount of money. In fact, 35% of the population makes under $1 a day. Its Human Development Index, a measure developed by the UN, is more or less on a par with Haiti (one of only two non-African nations that scored lower). This means the UN considers it one of the world’s least developed countries.

I’m not “fazed”, but it certainly makes an impact on me. I already have mixed feelings about being there, very conscious of being a “rich Westerner”. But everyone keeps telling me “they need our tourism dollars.” By employing local people — as many as possible! — we’re really helping. I’ll need to be convinced of this. At one point as we’re stopped in traffic, a scrawny kid motions at his mouth, for food. Standing in the middle of hundreds of moving vehicles, he moves lethargically. I smile sadly and shake my head. As we drive away, in a sudden burst of anger or despair he yanks open the car door beside me. I pull it shut, and the man who met us at the airport, without a word, turns from the front seat and pushes down the lock.

We arrive at the hotel, which is not particularly clean but has an ornate lobby. Overall it’s “okay”. What’s wrong with a few stained bedsheets and a Pigeon Air Force Base just outside the window? (After all, at least they’re outside!) I’m trying to be open-minded, as I’m told you need to “relax” and not apply my “Western sensibilities”, if I’m to enjoy myself in Nepal. (Three weeks later, on our return from camping, this place will seem utterly extravagant: “A bed! A toilet! Privacy! A shower…and it’s got hot water!”)

Later, we meet with the head of the trekking agency and our guide, Bikesh. He is a small, quiet man with a calm air about him. He says little, but enough for us to find it quite difficult to understand his English. In the afternoon, we wander out alone into the chaos of the Thamel district, to buy topo maps, a few small books, a bar of soap to wash our clothes during the trek.

To really get into the “just relax” mantra, we go for the best and cheapest massages of our lives — the equivalent of 5 Euros for a half-hour (me), and 10 Euros for an hour (Dulcinea). I was sore the next day, from the vigorous working-over and pounding on my skull. Later, as I wait for Dulcinea to finish, I notice my masseur showing his young nephew a pair of brass knuckles. Thankfully, he only used bare knuckles on my scalp. Whatever — it felt great (once it stopped).

Everything, we find, is super cheap. For dinner, we order a full Nepali/Indian meal for less than 3 Euros each. In total, it comes to 14 Euros for both of us, including dessert, huge beers, all the food… This was not a particularly “cheap” restaurant; quite tourist-oriented in fact. There are trekking outfitter companies everywhere, selling The North Face clothes, sleeping bags, tents — everything you could need from all the best mountain equipment brands. But there’s a catch: they’re not genuine. I notice the font is a little different in “The North Face”, and the Sigg water bottle I buy is apparently also a clone. Later, it turns out the lid leaks. Shocking!

I plan to write up my notes from some of our adventures in Nepal, but will need to divide it up into bite-sized segments (so open really wide!). I’ll start with an appetizer. The trip was a little more than three weeks long — we left Barcelona on a Saturday in late September and returned on a Tuesday in mid-October. Yes, the scenery was spectacular, almost indescribable. No, photos can’t do it justice. And, yes, we had a great time. Mostly.

Would we do it again? Well, I think it would require a “discussion”. Because even for a resolute hotel-hater, even with the requisite “open mind to new experiences” and all that — three weeks of third-world camping is, actually, quite a lot… Two weeks without a shower? To say it’s “not something to be sniffed at” would be the understatement of the year..

We flew a little less than 16,000km on a total of eight flights (including two mountain flights in small planes). We drove about 150km (not including airport transfers…), although this short distance took much of one day. Most importantly — as this was the core of the trip — we walked about 200km over 19 days. If that pace seems slow (an average of little over 10km per day), bear in mind that you need to pace yourself and go slowly as you acclimatize to the increasingly thinner air. Also, we discovered what all trekkers to the region discover — that there is such a thing as “Nepali flat”. That is, when your guide tells you it will be a “flat” day, this merely means that you will end the day at roughly the same elevation you started. It has nothing to do with the endless up and downs you may take to get there. So if we technically only climbed 300m in “net” terms on a given day, I suspect often we often climbed at least that much again, but lost those gains as we descended to cross a river, for instance.

I probably ended the trip is better shape than I’ve been in years. More tanned, too; at least with a serious “farmer’s tan” on the neck and arms. As the days are so short and cooler now in Barcelona, it won’t last long (neither the tan nor the fitness). I was grateful for whatever “training” I’d done before the trip — a few major hikes in the Pyrenees as well as lots of walking up and down, either on the hills outside our house or ascending 500m on the 15%-inclined treadmill at the gym. I had no sore muscles or physical problems to speak of (just sore feet and a bit of near-blistering on the heels from our biggest descent days, but I’d taped them and no skin was broken).

Tired, at times, yes — many times we felt utterly exhausted. Sometimes just taking one more step up was difficult. We experienced no altitude sickness (serious headaches being the first sign of a rapid progression that can lead to edema, embolism and death), but the thin air certainly had its effect, whether physical or psychological. There were moments when I just ran out of steam, but mostly I had a spring in my step, and recovered from uphill portions remarkably quickly. For some reason, I think I have a tendency to charge up mountains, leaving me sweaty, exhilarated, and wiped out. It’s not a race, I discovered in Nepal. Here, because we were pretty much forced to take it slow on the uphills (by our guide and our physical limitations), I found the slowness enjoyable. One step after the other, just like life. It was almost meditation at times. As for my Dulcinea, she just keeps on going without complaint, a pillar of endurance. Only when we arrive to set up camp does she let it be known (this only happened once or twice) that she is on the verge of collapse…

We went from below 800m to over 5400m (that’s over 17,700 ft for you Imperialists). At the highest elevations, we had to make do with 50% of the air we’re used to breathing in Barcelona. This does not require oxygen tanks to breathe, as Everest might, but it does require fitness, patience and an absence of bad luck. (Incidentally, you might wish for that bottled oxygen when you’re walking around the polluted capital, Kathmandu.) We slept — camping, mind you, none of this teahouse/hotel luxury for us! — all the way from wet, buggy and leechy tropical lowlands to a couple of nights spent at more than 4600m (more than 15,000 ft) with snow and ice decorating our tent.

We did a portion of the famous Annapurna Circuit, from Besi Sahar to Jomsom, with a week-long detour in the middle — a trip back in time — to the rarely-visited “lost valleys and villages” of Naar and Phu. This isolated region is very close to Tibet, not only physically (just across the Chinese border) but also culturally, linguistically, religiously… To go there requires a special trekking permit (maybe several hundred are granted each year, compared to the hundreds of people at any given point on the Annapurna Circuit each day). It also requires a camping expedition, since there are as yet no teahouses along this route. And so, even when we were in the towns of the Circuit, we slept in a tent — often in the field behind a guesthouse. Our own cook prepared all our meals (in a tent, shack, or using the guesthouse’s kitchen, if they had one to offer). Not always wilderness camping, but self-sufficient nonetheless. And it guaranteed us a place to sleep, which is not something all the other tourists were finding…

The isolation is partly what attracted me to the Naar/Phu area in the first place. If something goes wrong, you’re far from help. Helicopter evacuation insurance is a must; we saw at least one other group making use of it. The place has been largely cut off from the world for centuries. It was never on a major trading route (Phu in particular is at a “cul-de-sac” amidst high mountains), so it received little commerce or other traffic. This remoteness appealed. It probably changed very little in the 20th Century (admittedly, some homes now have solar panels powering small lights). Not only have few Western people have had the privilege of seeing the region, but I’d heard it was supposed to be spectacular. It did not disappoint. I’m afraid to tout it too much, for fear it will simply become like the rest of the Circuit in the coming years (yes, I have an inflated sense of my impact on the world ;-).

This year, the monsoon rainfall broke records in many areas, and although it was wrapping up when we arrived, the abnormal year continued with unusually early snow at higher elevations (more than a month early!) changing our plans. The original idea was to make another deviation from the Annapurna Circuit later in the trip, going from Manang up past Tilicho Lake and over the Mesokanto Pass to Jomsom. In the end, we did not take this route (for weather and safety reasons). Instead, we opted to go over the more certain, easier (and infinitely busier) Thorung La (”La” = “pass”).

I was very disappointed, because with a more technical guide and porters we’d have been able to do it anyhow. I’m from Canada, and it really wasn’t that much snow (ha ha). Our main problem was lack of information: even a weather report. There seemed to be little communication between the various ACAP (Annapurna Conservation Area Project) offices, and there was no way to know what lay ahead without actually going there. Also, we had time constraints on our trip; we couldn’t spend days waiting for the right conditions. Our hardy “gang” claimed to be willing to give it a try — obviously not wanting to disappoint or anger us, the clients — but the uncertainty and anxiety of our guide was obvious. We felt we made the right decision; Tilicho would be left for another trip.

As the trip began, however, we were the ones feeling anxious and uncertain…

[To be continued…]

Well, we arrived back safe and sound, if a little groggy, from Nepal (via India) on Tuesday, and have been adjusting slowly to life in the “real world” again. Hmm… Is this world really more real than what we experienced there? Or is it the reverse? Anyhow, adjusting mainly means shifting our eating schedule back to after 9pm (rather than being asleep by that time, as we generally were for the three weeks in Nepal). And trying to cope with being so darn clean all the time; sitting rather than walking all day; being at a table — on a chair — to eat; not having someone bring me tea at 6am every day.

I’m finding Barcelona to be rather snow- and mountain-free, after so much time spent in such alpine grandeur. At least I can amble up a few hundred metres to my favourite viewpoint, as I already have done twice this week. A bit different from a country where a 5,000m peak is literally called a “hill”! But no signs of altitude sickness here, unless longing for altitude counts (in the same way that homesickness means longing for home).

I have tons of notes and photos from the trip, and the plan is to write up a bit for each day of our trip. This may be overly-ambitious, but it’s, well, the plan. Be prepared to be deluged, monsoon-style, with facts and figures, observations and pithy anecdotes. On second thought, I’m known more for my “ramble” than my pith, so maybe brace for pithless, rambling anecdotes. A deluge of words, at least.

I was sad to learn that, just as we were ending our trek on the other side of the world, my maternal grandmother ended her “trek” here on Earth…she passed away last Thursday after more than a decade of Alzheimer’s and, generally, the frailty of old age.

To paraphrase a favourite author of hers, and substituting my grandmother for “Christopher Robin”:

My grandmother is going.
At least I think she is.
Where?
Nobody knows.
But she is going -
I mean she goes
(To rhyme with “knows”)
Do we care?
(To rhyme with “where”)
We do
Very much.
…
Good-bye,
I
(Good)
I
And all your friends
Sends -
I mean all your friend
Send -
(Very awkward this, it keeps going wrong.)
Well, anyhow, we send
Our love
END.

I just ate my last orange, perhaps my last fresh green lettuce for more than three weeks. And I think I’m ready for three weeks of Dahl Baat (rice w/lentils). We’re off to Nepal tomorrow morning (arriving early Sunday morning), for three weeks of trekking in a rarely-visited region off the Annapurna Circuit, the Naar and Phu valleys (and their corresponding villages and yak pastures).

We’ve spent weeks preparing — finding out about visas, buying new gear (backpacks, warm sleeping bags, water treatment chemicals, boots, etc.), packing and repacking, and “training”. The training consisted of two practice camping trips and several “high altitude” (3,000m — pretty high for Catalunya) hikes in the past few weeks. We also got set for high mountain camping by nearly having our tent (with us wide awake in it) blown away by powerful winds at Vall de Núria. We didn’t fare very well, so hopefully the tent we get in the Himalayas will be a real expedition tent.

So, we’re probably not actually ready, but I think we’re as ready as we’ll ever be, as well as being excited and nervous and wanting to give it a go! Whether it be leeches, altitude headaches (have you ever tried to sleep at more than 5,000m? — we’ll be trying it, if all goes well), dubious flights from dinky and windswept mountain airports — bring it on! Of course, that’s easy to say now, at the outset. We’ll see how excited we feel after twenty-some days camping…

The truth is, for all of our preparing (well, Dulcinea would say for all my preparing, since as usual I’m the one doing most of the fussing and fretting), we don’t really know what to expect. Weather-wise — will monsoon season wrap up soon? In theory, they say it ends at the mid-to-end of September. Let’s hope it finishes early this year. Will our outfitting company be reliable and safe? Let’s hope so. At the very least, whatever happens there will be a few stories and photos to share once we’re back. See you in mid-October!

Namasté!

A couple of weekends ago, I went on a weekend trip aboard the Gran Azul (Big Blue), a fair-sized sailing yacht, to do my prácticas for the PER (Patron de Embarcaciones de Recreo — aka “Spanish boating licence”). I “passed”, if one can call it that — I don’t know if it was my school or just the general approach to certification here, but it was quite…what’s the word: easy? We were “rubber-stamped” on a lot of the required elements for certification. I suspect/hope there are more exigent schools and sailing clubs out there.

A similar sail-cruising course I took in Canada a few years ago was much more demanding — not to mention safety-conscious. That being said, this was an interesting social experiment: living on a boat with seven other men and our Captain/instructor; full Catalan immersion; practical jokes; ribbing (calling me yanquí, for instance); swimming while far out at sea; seasickness for all but me; excessive drinking (albeit not while on duty) and other shenanigans one might (or might not) expect.

Since then, I’ve been focusing my attention on a completely different topic: Nepal. It’s somewhere both Dulcinea and I have wanted to go for years. I’ve spent all my time exploring flight options (routings, pricing), trekking companies (how many are there to choose from? TOO MANY! and how to choose?), possible hikes to do, visa inquiries. This all culminated with me booking a trip for us in late September/early October. We’ll be trekking through remote areas of Nepal near the Annapurna Circuit, including multiple >5,000m passes (that’s 16,500 feet for you — ahem — yanquís ;-). Higher than any point in Canada outside the Yukon. And considering the highest point in Quebec is well under 2,000m, it’ll be quite something for me (Dulcinea has been just over 4,000m in the Atlas Mountains).

So there’s plenty to do in the coming month: immunizations (for me, of course she’s had ‘em all); visas from Nepal and India (hope this goes faster than my Spanish visa-obtaining experience); buying and breaking in new boots for both of us; gearing up; continuing our exercise routines for serious high-altitude hiking; making sure we have proper insurance coverage; you get the idea. There’s a lot.

Certainly, on one level, we’ll be roughing it. A bit more than three weeks tenting in remote regions (no Annapurna tea-houses for us this time, though we may regret that decision) will probably push beyond our comfort levels now and then (ha — yes, I’m known for the occasional understatement). But I do feel weird about the fact that we’ll have an entourage of something like ten people supporting just us! Ten people for two? Cook, cook’s boy, porters, guide, the list seems to go on forever.

It seems wrong, on one level, yet it’s the basis of much of the economy of the region. It’s a poor area, but one which does not rely on handouts. I know we’ll be shamed by how hard they work, and all that on our behalf. Well, we’ll have to see — I’m curious to see how it feels once we get there. In my fantasies we’ll have a very “authentic” experience, establish relationships and get a feel for the real people who live there. At the same time, I doubt this will happen: dropping in for a fully-supported trek strikes me as quite artificial. We don’t belong. Or do we? Hopefully, more come on that topic, in a couple of months!

I’m not truly “home”, since home is now in Spain…but I am back in Montreal (with travel insurance to visit my own country, if you can imagine). My three month ticket return date came up, and since all my Spanish paperwork is now in order (and thus I should be able to legally re-enter the country), I decided to take a three-week jaunt across Canada by plane, train and automobile. First to Montreal, then out west to see my sister and her new daughter, then more family. (If “more family” sounds dismissive, please — it isn’t. I’ll be glad to see everyone; it’s just that having a two-month-old niece is particularly exciting.)

It’s a great time to be in Montreal, of course: the street fair, fireworks competition, Jazz Fest (starting later this week). The place probably hasn’t changed that much in the three months I’ve been away, yet it’s undergone the spring to summer transition (which is always dramatic, and not only in the amount of clothing people wear) and all the restaurants have new menus, prices bumped up by $0.25 (best case) to $2.00 or more. Guess this is the price of oil, food…or just opportunism, with a new tourist season heating up?

The other noticeable change is the proliferation of bicycles. Montreal has always been a big biking city with great bike paths (more developed and bike-friendly than Barcelona in almost every way except for Bicing). But there are so many new bike paths this year that bikes are especially viable, even for people who need to commute to and from downtown. Bikes are absolutely everywhere. There are new links that run down avenue du Parc, along de Maisonneuve…it’s impressive (and makes me a little jealous) to see all the new developments. Hopefully Montreal will learn some things from Barcelona’s “public biking” approach, but Barcelona could learn plenty from Montreal, too.

The exciting news from today is that I bought my annual supply of underwear and socks at the St. Laurent street sale (wonderfully named La Frénésie de la Main). But it had a nice Spanish(-language, at least) touch — I bought them from a latina shopkeeper (hablamos español). Meanwhile Spain was playing Italy (two emotional forces of La Main, especially now that Portugal is out) on the big screens in every bar and restaurant around. Spain eventually won the Euro 2008 match in a kickoff, so it’s into the semi-finals for them (I mean, for us).

I guess I must adjust to new situations quickly, because although it’s really good to be here, I’ll be glad to (when the time comes) go back to Barcelona. In Spain, probably I go on too much about how great Canada is for this or that. But here in Canada, I don’t find myself saying: “Phew, finally I’m back in a land where things makes sense,” but instead going on about how great it is…back home.