Nightly nightmares

Prayer flags in the wind

I'm on the hunt for a book. I bought 'The Secret Lives of the Dalai Lama' whilst in Kathmandu & gave myself a crash course in Tibetan history, philosophy and religion. There was a sense of urgency to learn as much as possible. Stories about China's strict border control and contraband reading list were in equal parts frightening and frustrating. I wanted to be informed about the Tibet/China situation before crossing over. I speedily read and posted it home, hoping for a chance to revisit the book. Particularly now given that I am writing the Tibetan chapter of my book.

This book gave me nightmares.

Tibetan philosophies and history is not all fuzzy hugs, hippie karma and rainbows. Well, rainbows feature fairly frequently in folklore as denoting the birth of reincarnated spirits. Tibetan history is awash with bloodshed, treachery, hostile invasions, political turmoil and poisoning. Reaching thousands of years before the 1949 invasion. Their history is deeply embroiled with scripture describing the plateau's spiritualscape of demons and portals to the many layers of hell.

I would suddenly bolt upright in the middle of the night, gasping for air. A showreel of images dancing in my mind. Spirits with claws and multiple eyes. The stench of rotting flesh. The feeling of feet stomping on my chest and dead men on horseback. I would flick on the light, casting ominous shadows on the damp hotel room walls. I would listen to the gurgle of water trickle through rusty pipes, trying to catch my breathe. The smoggy streets of Tamil silent. Strict nighttime curfews, enforced by stick swinging police, meant only the foolhardy would wander through the labyrinth of lane-ways after 11pm.

This became a nightly routine. Falling back to sleep difficult. My head failing to find a comfortable position on the lumpy concrete sack of a pillow.

In retrospect, there were other reasons why sleep eluded me during my 3weeks in Kathmandu. I drank countless cups of coffee, indulged in sugar infused snacks, hung out in reggae bars drinking cheap vodka, became addicted to Twin Peaks, contorted my body under the tutelage of hardcore yoga junkies, became feverous with the flu - so it was almost no wonder I woke in cold sweats from the most vivid dreams.

Yet the impeding unknown caused my heart to grip in fear. Once we crossed into Tibet anything that could go wrong could be disastrous. The region is twice the size of France and virtually cut off from the world due to geographical and political obstacles. We would be ascending altitude at rates unadvisedly by medical professionals and camping in sub zero temperatures.I doubted I was physically prepared for the challenge (hence the half hearted attempts of yoga. I dread to think how my favourite pose, the corpse pose, would have 'prepared' me).

Road to Everest

Once I was in Tibet I fell in love with the rolling tundras, soaring mountains and searing sunlight.

But I also complained bitterly the whole time! The physical discomfort of extreme temperatures and altitude was & remains like nothing I have ever endured. Unless I don't find this book soon gosh darn it!

My Home

The result of this week's writing exercise about 'home':

My tent (with the fluorescent fly)

I did what felt like a fair amount of research for my tent. It would after all be my home for six months. In retrospect, I did little more than flick through pictures. Durability, dimensions, weight and weatherproofing didn’t really factor into the search. But then I found her. As cute as a button, my very own home away from home.

Square bottomed with two entrance points, it looked cozy and hobbit-hole like. It boasted that it could comfortably house two people. Two people with desirable BMI's, no luggage and possibly a foot shorter than the norm.

I found a video clip of the tent being tested. It stood pegged on a golf standard green in the middle of a warehouse. Suddenly, out of a network of overhead pipes, reams of water started pelting the tent. Wind machines ticked over, emitting shrill shrieks as they spun, plummeting the tent in all directions. It was a fabulously high tech and carefully engineered mini cyclone. The tent stayed stoutly secured to the ground. The interior bone dry. Yes, that would do just fine I thought to myself.

The clincher of the decision lay in the tent's ridiculously reduced sale price. I didn't for a moment question why the company would be drastically cutting prices and selling this style of tent to clear. I was more focused on picking a colour. The green fly of my tent was such a fabulously fluorescent it could have only be camouflaged if pitched in a discothèque celebrating a St Paddy's inspired Mardi Gras. Not exactly the colour for concealment. If anything it was more like a beacon in the night, herding nefarious types to our campsites.

Once on the road and with a fistful of bent and broken aluminum tent pegs, I realized that this camping malarkey would be hard work. During preparations I had anticipated that next six months would amount to an adventure of Enid Blyton proportions - endless rays of sunshine, snugly woodland creatures, lashings of ginger beer and sugary cakes.

My Enid Blyton vision of life on the road

Not imagining for a minute the possibilities of tent eating ants, thistles and thorns. The discomfort of pitching on concrete or in quarries. Or the dangers of getting trampled by herds of cows or goats, suckled by millions of mosquitoes,enquiring machine-gunned militia or bone-chilling temperatures.

Despite looking lush and green, thistles are in terrifyingly plentiful portions (Germany)

Exercise #1 Home

I’ve been reading Carmel Bird’s writing book ‘Writing the story of your life’ with keen delight. It sounds awfully dull, but she has such a gentle turn of phrase that she makes everything sound so lovely, lively and achievable. Interspersed are quotes from a range of people who have written memoirs, as well as tips and advice.

Inspired by the following discussion of a quote

“Colette, in her autobiography, Earthly Paradise, wrote of returning to her childhood home out of a ‘desire to observe the exact relation of memory to sites which shaped it.’ And she found many things still ‘fitted faithfully beneath the tracing which I always carry with me’. “

I came to the swift realization that I hadn’t made any real mention of my home for the last six months. So this week’s writing exercise has been writing about my beloved fluorescent green tent. I'll post up what I came up with.