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SWEET SWYAMBHU SUNRISE
Swyambhunath is a magical holy hill only half an hour by foot from the heart of old Kathmandu, sacred to Hindus and Buddhists alike and alive with mobs of cheeky monkeys.
It was here that I met my dear friend Desmond, an Irish blues musician who has lived in these parts for over four decades. He is a wonderful character, with his long white pony tail, panama hat and signature Fender Stratocaster, still blasting out Hendrix numbers in the bars of Kathmandu after all these years. We played some music together and he inspired me to write this song, which I then recorded right there at his Swyambhu studio. I have set some of my photos behind it for all to enjoy.
Please click on the link below
DOUGHNUTS ON DURBAR
A CURIOUS WORLD AIDS DAY
World Aids Day 2014 was celebrated with surprising vigour beneath the haunting skyline of the stately palace and looming nine story 16th century pagodas in the heart of Old Kathmandu. Neat white cubicles offering HIV related services appeared like mushrooms in the public square at dawn, displacing the traditional artisan market. Roads were lined with spanking new pearl white Toyota SUVs gleaming in the soft morning fog like slick hulking ghosts, each bearing the insignia of a major NGO from somewhere around the world. An enormous stage was erected on the far side of Durbar Square complete with mammoth sound system and light show ready for the evening performance.
Special guests, donors, politicians, and VIPs all arrived until the stage was groaning with experts of one kind or another.
The thunderous volume and shrill tonal settings of the loudspeaker system, more suitable for death metal than public address, made the next three interminable hours of impassioned speeches quite a deafening experience. The harsher tones of the Nepali tongue ricocheted off at all angles from the many planes and surfaces of the ancient architecture. Rousing articulate speeches uttered into the microphone became a barrage of unintelligible syllables echoing randomly around the town, once spewed forth from the massive woofers.
Finally, when all the words had been said and all the visiting sponsors thanked sufficient times to ensure that World Aids Day 2015 would be equally well funded, the booths were all pushed to one side. The gathered crowd were then herded around to form a long rectangle of fifty by ten metres. I craned my neck above the chattering masses to see what was going on and to my surprise found a team of motorcycle athletes inside the human oblong revving up ready to start some kind of show. ”How can you perform a motor bike show with people standing only metres away?” I wondered.
The entire team looked Bollywood-style dashing as they prepared for their tricks before a spellbound audience.
The men’s performance seemed like a handbook on teenage motor bike delinquency. Stunts such as wheelies, burn outs, doughnuts, jousting and so on brought cheers and shouts of delight from their many adoring fans, most of whom were standing only centimetres away from the action. The two women in the show rode sweeping intersecting arcs on on their scooters with arms and legs outstretched, adopting surprising and exciting poses as they rode – like synchronised swimming on two wheels.
Fortunately, despite several close calls between bike and spectator and a few minor spills, it all ended very well. While the buzzing crowd jostled to procure selfies with their motorcycle heroes, a tasty succession of local musical talent played on loud and hard into the night.
Suddenly, at some pre-ordained hour, the festivities came to an abrupt end and the entire infrastructure was hoovered quickly into the backs of rattling old Indian trucks, ready to be trotted out again at the next day of celebration, which is never too far away in this part of town.
The ancient plaza drifted back into her customary repose to the lingering smell of petrol, the drifting of red balloons and bearing her newest ornamentation – neat connecting rings of thick black rubber.
TWO SCOTTSMEN WALK INTO DURBAR SQUARE
Two Scottsmen walk into Durbar square, their short cropped greying hair trickling with sweat as they amble through the busy sunlit craft market. Both of them are enormous guys, standing out like Hagrid amongst the throngs of brightly and smartly dressed Nepalese artisans. The most massive of the two has a capacious beer gut which erupts from his tight black long sleeved lycra top and looms ominously over his precariously tied khaki kilt. His hairy badge bedecked sporran swings limply between his legs below the mound of his stomach like the tail of an old Himalayan yak. The kilt of the other Scott also hangs bedraggled below his burgeoning belly, the belt clinging desperately to the top of his buttocks in a last ditch bid to protect his decency in such a public space.
I have to respect them for taking pride in their national dress. However, I can not help thinking just how ridiculous they look lumbering around the ancient heart of Kathmandu city in their funny skirts, tight shirts and cheap Nepali hiking boots.
Suddenly, five ravishingly gorgeous young Nepali women sweep out of the crowd like a flock of parrots and begin circling the two men, chatting excitedly to one another – giggling joyfully all the while.
Finally, they approach the two strangers timidly and with great dark soulful pleading eyes, beg to have their photographs taken together. Passers by are roped in, hair and clothes are checked (for the girl’s part anyway) and one of the women produces a slick modern smart phone for the photo shoot. They ensure that every conceivable angle is captured, with the girls cuddled together in a happy huddle between the two towering lads.
Then with a thousand thank yous, much folding of hands and beaming of heartfelt, heart-warming smiles, they dart off into the crowd, consumed in a buzz of rapturously delightful energy.
The two men shuffle back into the market, unabashed, clearly accustomed to pleasing the populace wherever they should happen to go.
I wonder if you can buy kilts in Kathmandu?
KATHMANDU MORNINGS
Early morning gloaming illuminates the stately white peaks surrounding the Kathmandu valley like spotlights on towering great monuments.
Light, diffuse through thick layers of mist ekes into the nooks and crannies of the canyon-like streets and alleys, softening the corners and loaning a deep glow to the myriad of colours.
The streets pulse with life as hawkers scurry to line the sides of the road, making the most of the early hours, laying their blankets in front of yet to be opened stores, calling out to passers by as they amble about their morning tasks.
The air hangs rich with fragrance of flowers, incense, pungent spices and decaying vegetation as the people search for the freshest vegetables, tastiest snacks and sweetest tea.
Monkeys patrol the rooftops while sacred cows cruise the squares searching for nourishing morsels left over from last night’s dinner.
Temple bells signal the endless procession of the faithful making offerings to their deities while the chirping toot of motor cycle horns reminds oneself that we really are in the 21st century.
AVOIDING THE VOID
It was a gorgeous bright shining Saturday afternoon post monsoon in the tiny Tibetan refugee settlement of Bir. The nearest mountains were clear as a bell while great boiling clumps of cumulus were piled up on top of one another like cowpats over the summits of the towering ice encrusted peaks in the distance. Despite having spent two months in the region, I had never visited the famous paragliding launch site placed high up on a ridge above the town and a friend of mine, Millie offered to join me on for an excursion. After a ferocious haggle with a local taxi driver, we crammed ourselves into his tiny Indian-built vehicle and were off and away.
We rose switchback after switchback through ancient dank moss covered Himalayan pine forest until finally emerging into the craggy treeless expanse of the alpine zone. Here, the verdant near vertical hillsides slanted high into the azure sky above and were dotted with sheep and goats which sport the most magnificent coats of long flowing silken hair. Best wool in the world some people say.
Billing is a cluster of ramshackle timber frontier style restaurants and chai shops surrounding the jump off zone. The plunge to the landing field below is over 1000 vertical metres and the conditions are so ideal for paragliding that they even hosted a world championships there once. This happened despite all the inconveniences of being situated in a remote forgotten valley right on the edge of the soaring Indian Himal.
As we reached the top of the track and approached the crest of the mountain, a breathtaking panorama befell us. As far as the eye could see stood range after misty range of steep choppy ridges, arching out like shock waves into the Gangetic Plain as if caused by the tsunami of the rising of the mighty massif behind. After satiating ourselves with this magnificent scene, a stiff cool breeze encouraged us to take refuge on the lee side of the land-form, gazing instead at the high snowy mountains to the north with their menacing headpieces of angry grey thunderstorm.
We had only seen one lone paraglider in the air as we made our way up the mountain and assumed that we must have been too late to enjoy the spectacle of watching them take off. However, as we sat there, we noticed a couple of worryingly young Indian men sorting out parachutes that they appeared to be renting out to anyone who was willing to give it a go. People of all different nationalities were now arriving and starting to kit themselves out with the backpacks, straps, buckles and all the other bits and pieces that go along with these simple flying machines. Even to the casual observer, there was clearly a staggering disparity between the competence of the various pilots, just judging by the way they donned their gear. The one who was lined up to be first to take off, which I guess is a bit more risky than following, was a fit rugged looking American. He had an air of confidence about him that spoke of endless amounts of know how and experience. However, he did not take his allocated jump, instead allowing others to take his place, watching what was going on in obvious dismay. Eventually, he began to remove his gear and I overheard him whisper to one of the other adventurers something to the effect that he did not know what to expect here. Risk assessment done, decision – don’t jump.
“Gee!” I muttered to Millie, “that is a bit of a worry if the most competent looking guy on the block doesn’t think it is safe enough to go.”
The next cab off the rank was a muscular, clean cut Indian guy in his mid twenties. Looked like an army type. He stood with the parachute outstretched and attached to his back via a large rucksack, which I guess contained his emergency chute. To the front was a mass of chords and belts of various colours and sizes with numerous different types of buckle all dangling in front of him like the tentacles of a jellyfish. Although he approached the task with a cool head and a clear methodology, he was simply unable to ascertain which sash connected with which, fumbling with a rising level of desperation as his fingers jittered with fear like an alcoholic who is longing for a drink. I found this entire scene somewhat alarming and my eyes darted around for some semblance of sanity. Surely there must be somebody on site who can decide that allowing a person who does not even know how the equipment works jump of the edge of a thousand meter near vertical Himalayan hillside might be just a tad irresponsible. My expectations proved to be ill founded. The youth who was preparing the other parachutes noticed the man’s difficulties and instead of advising him to keep his two feet firmly on the ground, deftly attended to him. In no time at all, he was buckled up, checked for “safety and ready to take off.
I had to admire the soldier’s foolhardy courage as he stood there, back to the abyss, jaw firm with determination to go ahead with the launch even though his eyes and trembling hands betrayed his sheer mortal terror.
“I don’t think I can watch this” my friend exclaimed in an anxious voice. She turned her back to the scene, still peeking over her shoulder at the unfolding drama. “I don’t want to watch somebody die!”
The strings on the chute were stretched out in front of the would-be pilot and had been crossed over once so that the pilot could launch the parachute in front of him and once aloft, he should spin around 180 degrees and be facing in the right direction. The kite itself was being held up by one of the ground staff, trying to catch the brisk breeze which had been building in intensity all the while. Suddenly, a sharp snarl of mountain air caught the colourful fabric, filling it to bursting point and sending it jerking erratically into the air above the pilot.
“Up up up!” shouted the groundsman. The hapless soldier tugged frantically at various straps and ropes as he was being dragged backwards towards the sharp foreboding edge of the cliff. Just as he was about to plunge scrambling into the chasm, a stiff column of air rising vertically up the mountain face from the valley below battered his parachute back into the launch area, towing him aghast towards the jabbering crowd which had gathered on the ridge top to enjoy the show.
“Down down down!” came the cry from the guide. This manoeuvre, he evidently knew how to accomplish and promptly managed to deflate his kite with a swift pull of chord and fell flailing into a tangle on the soft grassy earth. Humiliation jostled for position over fear on his anguished face as he picked himself up and brushed off the mess while the groundsman came over to offer some much needed advice. A clear series of instructions was delivered about how to launch a paraglider and the student took in each piece of information with fervent attention and grim determination.
It was but a few minutes later when he stood back in the launching position by now almost overcome with dread. On the second attempt, the chute launched smoothly and floated over his head towards the precipice. He staggered backwards again, stumbling towards the precipice but this time pulling more confidently with the correct controls and at the last possible moment jumped gamely off the edge, spinning clumsily around into the right position as he soared off into the void.
After only a few seconds, as the steep slope slipped away beneath him, he was gliding many hundreds of meters above the jagged rocky floor of the alpine valley.
“How is he ever going to get down?” implored Millie. A very salient question indeed.
We watched, hearts in our mouths as he gingerly made a ninety degree bend and sailed briskly far far off into round empty belly the great valley below.
Bon voyage!
CRAZY HIMALAYAN ROAD TRIPS
Back in 1990 when I last visited the Anapurnas, trekking up to the base camp, the great Jonsom trek could not be completed in much under three weeks. The route encircled the entire massive which rises to over 8000 metres, crossed a 5400 meter pass and was one of the classic treks in this part of the world. Although so many years have passed, it was still surprising to see just how far vehicular access has encroached into this once mighty wilderness, even though gracing these thumping rocky grinding serpentine goat tracks with the title “road” is probably beyond even my level of exaggeration. Funded rather dubiously by the Chinese government, they appear to have been carved, blasted and excavated out of the sheer stony mountainside with no attention whatever paid to the surface condition, maintenance or safety. Blind corners and precipitous drop offs are a constant feature as you lurch headlong from pothole to rut to great areas strewn with all kinds of geological detritus.
Any trip along these paths usually requires a number of vehicle changes due to landslides, washed out bridges etc and your seat in the bus or jeep on the other side of the roadblock is far from guaranteed. No sooner has the old banger ground to a halt when a mad rush begins, charging across whatever foot track has been established around the obstacle and storming onto the bus or jeep waiting at the other end with each person vying to secure a place for themselves and their mates, all hoping to avoid standing up or traveling on the roof.
Road wiped out by waterfall
Scrambling for the next bus
no overtaking zone
Getting started in the morning
Tricky passing maneuvers
Experienced drivers only!
BHUTAN BY BUS PART ONE – DEWATHANG DAWN
Early morning wake up time is hailed by the thin mournful cry of a bugle pushing its way up through this dense dank atmosphere. The sound climbs the curves and cascades of the creek, pushing ever higher up the mountainside from an army encampment couched deep in the valley floor below. Finally, it pierces the thin metal framed pane of glass above my warm cosy bed, urging me to pull aside the curtain and see what this day should bring.
This is not the dawn I know from home. In Australia, dawn is a parakeet, stretching her vast vibrantly coloured wings, arching from one end of the earth to the next, hiding her head all the while. Unseen yet utterly apparent. Our ancient gnarled land glows a thousand tones in anticipation of her advent and even the merest wisp of a cloud bursts brilliantly into flame to herald her arrival. Then suddenly, almost from nowhere, she raises one bright burning searing eye above the scrubby hilltops as though challenging me to a staring match which only she can ever win.
Here, in the unelectrified night of remote Eastern Bhutan and with the early onset of summer rains, dank folds of monsoon push an eiderdown of ghostly steam into every fault and seam of the mighty Himalayan range. As the darkness yields to dawn’s subtle yet relentless approach, ridges arise from the gloom wearing wooly blankets of white while tall elegant peaks sport thin transparent mantles around their shoulders as though protecting themselves against the creeping damp. Dawn seeps into this valley from the vast empty plains below – refracted from one tiny droplet to the next a million billion trillion times until she is robbed of every living hue and stands alone as light at its purest and most diffuse. Fog so imbued with her luminescence infiltrates my lungs, creeping through cracks and sneaking under doors, passing gaps in the eaves and down though the ceiling till it comes to rest in every filament and fibre of every single garment that I own.
The birds rejoice none the less. Another dangerous night in the jungle survived. Now they can see and now they are free to fly. Nothing can catch them on their swift wings and they chatter playfully to one another in bright cheerful calls.
As the last notes of the First Post carry on climbing to the cool rocky peaks above, an new resonance – deep, strange and haunting moves through earth, air and building alike to arrive in my body and ears at once. Like a didgeridoo from deep down in the ground, the lama’s longhorns bring one section of their puja to a noisy close. Next the thin reedy call of the Tibetan oboes and the booming of the bass drums echo up the valley like palls of the thunder dragon after which this country takes it’s local name.
I glance at my clock, 5am – still time to visit the gonpa before I take the bus. In this country of mountains, everything is either up or down so I scale flight after steep flight of concrete steps to arrive at the spacious lha khang on top of the even bigger temple. I peek through the heavy brightly painted open door into the dim cavernous space beyond and my senses are overwhelmed with rich odours. Incense, sandalwood, musty old tapestries and the waxy smell of oil from dozens of flickering light offerings which adorn the elaborate shrine. Large gold and brass statues of Buddhas and deities glint in the dancing play of light and shadow from the lamps as the music and chanting reaches another crescendo. Finally, a vacant lull heralds the next stage of the ceremony and the participants notice my arrival. Friendly monks beckon me to sit beside them, wriggling over to make a space on the thin seating cushion atop of a cold polished stone floor.
I am completely absorbed. Bells jangle in my ears and vivid colourful images of deities and protectors glare down at me from the walls – some soothing and serene, others wrathful and terrifying. Slowly, I begin to breathe in time with the rhythm of the slow monotonous monastic chant and it feels as though something in my heart is resonating with the pure energy that these people are creating, even though I can not understand the words.
I savour that moment by moment.
Today I will be leaving this enchanted monastery in the foothills of the Himalaya overlooking the great plains of India. Leaving the steep verdant mountains – richly timbered with dense, luxuriant tropical rainforest. Leaving a place where almost everyone I see beams me a rich genuine smile almost every time I see them.
Revently, I back out of the lha khang, descend ever so many concrete staircases, gather up my belongings and with the gracious aid of a couple of monks, walk the kilometer or so down their steep gravel driveway to the main road below.
Today I am taking the bus to Thimpu.
Who Put The Buds?
This song was written many years ago at a family camping holiday in Station Creek, between Grafton and Coffs Harbour. We went there nearly every year and used to enjoy writing nonsense songs to sing around the camp fire.
For my overseas friends, this song makes an allusion to a very famous story in Australian popular culture.
I performed it occasionally, usually with my kids and their friends forming a backing band.
Finally in early 2014 amidst the confusion of packing up my house and selling the business, I decided on a whim that it was time to record. After a lot of fiddling with the arrangement, I was ready to record with my dear friend Brett Hamlyn from Deva studios. Luckily I was able to call in the services of Jason Bannister on drums, Mark David on bass, Odette Nettleton and Jessica McElroy on back up vocals and Stirling Bowen on Hammond Organ.
It was such fun to put this together please enjoy. You can listen for free on YouTube or buy the song from CDBaby, itunes and the usual digital retail outlets. If you like it please share it on social media!
Here is the YouTube link
Enjoy!
KALAK PATAR – EVEREST BASE CAMP
Kalak Patar is a relatively minor peak (5550m) which rises steeply above the tiny trekker’s village of Gorak Shep, a few kilometres short of Everest Base camp. From here, one can witness some of the best views in the Himalaya. I climbed up there twice, one afternoon and early one morning so fantastic is it.
Mt Everest, a blue triangle looming large behind the other peaks
The great Khumbu Glacier carving its way through the valley. The tall pointy peak on the skyline is Ama Dablam
The way up
Everest Base Camp is easily the most popular trek in Nepal though the goal itself is often a disappointment to people. In fact the camp as such only exists during the short climbing seasons in spring and Autumn so most of the time there is just an empty glacier where the tents would be. Even in climbing season, visiting trekkers are most unwelcome in the climbing camp as they often bring in unwanted infections so a modest cairn of rocks on which people add their own autographed stone is the only real landmark. Mt Everest is also not to be seen from base camp itself as it is hidden by the nearby Nuptse and the steep ridges heading up toward the mountain.
Having said all this, I found it to be a remarkable place. I love glaciers for their wild unpredictable ever changing beauty and to be walking around on top of it in such incredible landscape was a wonderful experience.
Khumbu glacier en route to Base Camp
The only glimpse of Everest summit from near Base Camp
Everest Baths
Base Camp!
SWYAMBHU
A few hundred meters from my temporary home here in Kathmandu rises a steep hill with an ancient collection of both Buddhist and Hindu shrines. Monkeys are protected here and the place is teaming with them.
