To say that I grew up surrounded by outdoor pursuits would be a vast understatement. My father was a
climbing instructor and mountain marathon runner and my mother was a sailing
instructor. From the age of 6 I was introduced to the ways of water and land, using
both Lake District in the early years and the Scottish Highlands in more recent
times as the playground on which to push and stretch my young body into discovering where my abilities and passions lay. Not surprisingly, I ended up falling in love with everything to do with mountains and all they have subsequently come
to represent to me. Weekends would be devoted to climbing hills and peaks, holidays would be spent exploring new and exciting places, bivouacking under star strewn skies and running through thick woods and forests in search of dinosaurs. Although my efforts in locating such animals proved fruitless, what I did discover in
all those days, weeks and years of young adventure was a deep love of, well,
adventure.
On Christmas day 2006, after receiving some rather bizarre (although not to me at the time) presents which included a travel journal, fleece jumpers, neck buff, storybooks and, of course, a Captain Jack Sparrow compass, I found out that in just a few months’ time I was to board a plane bound for the Himalayas. As an 11 year old boy obsessed with exploration and adventure, you can imagine my reaction at being told that in just a few short months I would be walking to Everest Base Camp. It was a truly spectacular adventure, the likes of which I could never have
dreamed of back in Scotland. Being in such a magnificent land where everything
from the landscape to the language, from the faces to the food, was so utterly
different and foreign to that of which I had grown up accustomed solidified in my
mind that this, travelling and surveying the world through my own eyes and not
anyone else’s was to be my future.
In the years that followed, memories from that trip kept lingering in the back of my mind. There were still pages of the book that remained blank and when the time was right, I must do everything I could to continue the story. I am certainly not the only
person who holds such a personal and confusing history with Nepal. As home to
the greatest mountain range on earth, there is a allure and magnetism that
draws members of mountain tribes from all over the world to return year upon
year in search of answers to questions they hold, hoping that the peace and undeniable sacredness of the landscape will be the setting in which they will achieve
their goals.
The walk itself didn’t pan out completely as planned however. Hours before reaching Base Camp, one of our number fell ill with both High Altitude Pulmonary Edema and High Altitude Cerebral Edema, a brutal combination of illnesses which are brought about by the inability to produce the sufficient red blood cells required to produce the necessary oxygen needed for normal bodily function whilst at great height. With the only remedy being to lose as much altitude as possible as quickly as possible, a helicopter was called for an immediate evacuation. Aged 11, I had been introduced to not only the majesty and ‘otherworldly-ness’ that the Himalayas had to offer, but also the harsh and unforgiving side. Here was a landscape that would always win.
Twelve years on and I’m walking, once again, through the bustling markets and cramped, dusty streets of Kathmandu. My plan, to spend one full day exploring the various tourist sites and getting familiar with Nepalese culture again. There is a pace to city life in this part of the world which makes for an exiting adventure in itself. Shop keepers call out offering all manner of merchandise from small trinkets such as prayer flags and fridge magnets to enormous ivory statues of the Buddha and countless outdoor clothing of questionable quality and validity. Smiling to myself with nostalgic and pleasant familiarity, it feels, for the first time since committing to the trip – real. I revisit spectacular pieces of both architecture and religious significance such Swayambhunath (commonly referred to as the ‘Monkey Temple’) which stands sentinel over the Kathmandu valley, providing stunning a panorama of the vast city. When I first came here Kathmandu held little over 1 million people, a number which has since tripled. People from all over Nepal flock here in their masses in search of a better future than that which is promised in their home villages. The results of the 2015 earthquake are still visibly raw, the destruction that was left behind as a result, still overwhelming. The people are making do though, with the money coming in from China Aid and with numerous volunteers sharing their knowledge and time, there is a sense that although progress is slow, the process of rebuilding what which was lost, is steadily continuing.
One of the many reasons for embarking on this trip, save those which were mentioned earlier, is the people. There is a resilience and stubborn toughness to the inhabitants of both cities and remote villages alike, a simple yet clear understanding that their lives must be governed by what will keep them and their families surviving at a base level. For reasons best known to me, I am keen to identify and appreciate this outlook which is held by all who live among the harsh metropolitan areas of Kathmandu or Pokhara, or in the scarce, snowy mountains or lush jungle foothill villages which make up the rest of the country. The only attire available
for the vast majority of the populace, regardless of occupation or surroundings in which they live, involves little more than flip flops, shorts and a t shirt.
Yet after living and working in the Himalayas for 9 weeks and seeing the cheery and resilient way in which people still seem to lead thoroughly fulfilling and
fun lives with so little, I am forced to think that lessons should be learned and questions asked about whether life back in the lucrative and highly
materialistic western world, is really in such a desperate state after all.
When one has established oneself in a community of people for a long period of time, it becomes hard to see that way of life from an outside perspective. With day to-day routines such as washing clothes in a river and walking for an hour and a half to the nearest town for supplies becoming normality and familiarity being found
in small details and rituals such as fixing the underground pipes transporting water from the vast tanks into the locals houses, life gets boiled down to a
few simple and salient needs, with what remains fading into luxurious fantasy. Daily life around these lowland areas revolves around animal husbandry (buffalo,
goats, horses, chicken and cows) with one of the principle jobs being the
transportation of grass for these and other household animals who provide milk, eggs and meat for the villagers. Huge bundles of lush green grass get bound
together and placed on top of the backs of anyone who can carry them and transported all over the valleys. This, understandably, is a full time undertaking
for those who take on this daily commission.
When one is travelling through Nepal, it will become clear that this is a land
filled with contradictions. For however harsh, unforgiving and barran the
mountainous landscape may be, the homes in which people have made for
themselves remain warm, welcoming and filled with love. The silence that hangs
in the crisp morning air being broken by the gentle squeak of prayer wheels
being spun or the soft flutter of the prayer flags, busy sending prayers up to
the Gods it is hard to imagine a more harmonious place.
After 6 weeks in the jungled lowlands and fertile valleys of the Lamjung region
working as a volunteer in a small NGO school teaching everything from English
and Maths to Science and Social Studies to children aged 5-12, I left for the
two hundred odd kilometer walk around the Annapurna circuit. As the thick and
dense jungle which overflowed with life got steadily replaced by starker more
arid plains, the dwellings predictably became fewer and fewer. There tend to be
less isolated houses in these higher regions, communities of people sticking
together to form tight knit groups who look out for one another and share in
the effort of making sure that everyone has a place. However the common thread
of quiet, serene and polite toughness remains in spite of the thinning air and lessening supplies.
Photographing these people had always been one of my key objectives for my return trip. Faces as gnarled, weathered and contoured as the peaks themselves share deep and beautiful stories of a lifetimes worth of hardship and resilience, staring deep
into my lens with an unerring sense that, no matter how much we try to play our
part for them, the world in which they valiantly battle through, will not be
changing any time soon.
It is an interesting question as to whether the marriage of people and place here
is a marriage of equals – these mountains have been here long before us and
will be here long after we have left. Yet, with a healthy admiration and deep,
spiritual respect being given from the local and visiting people to the thousands
of vast, towering, snowy monoliths that surround them, it’s one which has the
potential to stand the test of time.