At some lesser-visited corner of the earth, a convergence of land and sea has created a natural wonder of true magnificence. Quite simply put: it's a beach.
A winding, narrow road through a jungle of the densest and most tropical nature finds its end amidst a handful of bamboo huts; their proprietors selling samosas and coconuts, straws protruding. Your rickshaw having come to rest, you're instantly allured beyond by the soft roar of the breaking waves just a stone's throw from where you stand. Into the clearing, the beach reveals itself stretching in a wide arc to left and to the right. In either direction, it extends much further than you'd really care to walk.
You step on to the sand. It delicately caresses your feet and beckons you to take another step. So soft, it could very well have been the earthly inspiration for velvet. The beach slopes gently downward as you take twenty paces to the edge of the pristine waters leaving a solitary trail of inverted bare feet in your wake. The pillow-like saturated sand continues uninterrupted out to a depth much taller than you. Only after two minutes' swim do you notice the sandy bottom has morphed into a lush and lively coral forest teeming with fish most colourful in all their tropical charm.
Pushed back ashore by the gentle surf, the hot sun helps to quickly dry you of the (relatively) cool sea water. Intolerant of a sunny afternoon at the equator, you string up your hammock from a low-hanging branch of an ancient and truly curious-looking tree to bask in its generous shade. There on the threshold of beach and jungle you swing with the refreshing sea breeze, your palette cleansed by a periodic sip from your coconut.
An elephant's bellow cuts through the ever-present choir of birds from somewhere deep in the woods. Having bathed the entire island in two lifetimes' worth of vitamin D, the sun begins its slow slide into the horizon. Five kilometers of beach are now 'crowded' by some fifty people, here to bid the sun goodnight and watch the sky's rosy dusk glow blacken and fill to its brim with stars. The impossibly dark jungle tells all through an unthinkably loud chorus of crickets and other creatures nocturnal.
You make your way back along the beach, minding the risen tide. With each carefully timed crashing wave, the beach subtly whispers, "I'm absolutely perfect; thanks for visiting."
Perfect. But for one problem:
You're not actually here. :)
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Italian Opera
Not lingering over Mike's departure, mom and I made haste on an afternoon train to Agra. We toured the be all and end of all Mahals, the Taj, as the sun struggled to cast its red rising glow through a hazy morning. Undeterred, the building and its environs emanated a glow all their own. The town of Agra, sparing a few very high end craft emporia, was much akin to a garbage dump in my eyes.
By the rails, Mike and I had been travelling in sleeper class. In short: persistent noise, astonishing filth and bodies numbering sufficiently for one to be rid of his memory of personal space. Mom and I, disappointed by 3AC (one class up from sleeper) booked a 2AC ticket to Agra. Over our 24 hour journey, the floors were swept and mopped (with disinfectant) no less than 4 times. Food and snack services from the stewards were almost as frequent as their visits to pick up our trash. The bathrooms (don't ask about sleeper class) were spotless AND stocked with toilet paper. Ready for our settlement, each independently illuminated bunk was boasting a stack of clean sheets, a blanket and a clean slipped pillow. Finally and most favourably, each sleeping quarter of four people (instead of 6, 8, 12 or some otherwise numbered bent capacity) was enclosed by a set of curtains offering to me a yet unseen standard of personal space and placidity.
Apart from a trip to the Taj Hotel bar, Mumbai came and went uneventfully. We backtracked by train to visit Nashik. My dear friend Nilesh (turns out Carnival Cruises is good for something) offered a bed and endless hospitality to mom and me for our three day visit to this lesser visited town of 1.6 million. Escaping the hotel/tourist arena for a genuine Indian family stay proved one of the most enjoyable parts of my trip.
I've come up with a simple sum equation. Here goes: Miami Beach + India = Goa. It's just that simple! Equipped with no certain expectations, our visit to India's beach bum mecca was surprising and yet totally familiar at the same time. America's urban oceanside grace has taken up roots quite flawlessly at India's west coast.
Just 16 hours to the south by train, Kerala sings an aria with little semblance to Goa's rebel yell. Kerala's endless aqua pura highways were nearly as serene as a paddly meander through the lakes of Algonquin Park (my home and native land).
A lot can happen in two weeks. Mom, probably well sick of the Hindu hustle, made her way back to Canada after a night's stay in Fort Kochin where Portugal seemed to be not so far away as I'd thought. I'm now inland, frolicking about the tea-green hills of Munnar, Kerala. Big things are coming...
By the rails, Mike and I had been travelling in sleeper class. In short: persistent noise, astonishing filth and bodies numbering sufficiently for one to be rid of his memory of personal space. Mom and I, disappointed by 3AC (one class up from sleeper) booked a 2AC ticket to Agra. Over our 24 hour journey, the floors were swept and mopped (with disinfectant) no less than 4 times. Food and snack services from the stewards were almost as frequent as their visits to pick up our trash. The bathrooms (don't ask about sleeper class) were spotless AND stocked with toilet paper. Ready for our settlement, each independently illuminated bunk was boasting a stack of clean sheets, a blanket and a clean slipped pillow. Finally and most favourably, each sleeping quarter of four people (instead of 6, 8, 12 or some otherwise numbered bent capacity) was enclosed by a set of curtains offering to me a yet unseen standard of personal space and placidity.
Apart from a trip to the Taj Hotel bar, Mumbai came and went uneventfully. We backtracked by train to visit Nashik. My dear friend Nilesh (turns out Carnival Cruises is good for something) offered a bed and endless hospitality to mom and me for our three day visit to this lesser visited town of 1.6 million. Escaping the hotel/tourist arena for a genuine Indian family stay proved one of the most enjoyable parts of my trip.
I've come up with a simple sum equation. Here goes: Miami Beach + India = Goa. It's just that simple! Equipped with no certain expectations, our visit to India's beach bum mecca was surprising and yet totally familiar at the same time. America's urban oceanside grace has taken up roots quite flawlessly at India's west coast.
Just 16 hours to the south by train, Kerala sings an aria with little semblance to Goa's rebel yell. Kerala's endless aqua pura highways were nearly as serene as a paddly meander through the lakes of Algonquin Park (my home and native land).
A lot can happen in two weeks. Mom, probably well sick of the Hindu hustle, made her way back to Canada after a night's stay in Fort Kochin where Portugal seemed to be not so far away as I'd thought. I'm now inland, frolicking about the tea-green hills of Munnar, Kerala. Big things are coming...
Sunday, November 8, 2009
And then there were teen
Chitwan National Park in the south of Nepal was once a prime destination for nearly all touring visitors to the country. Crippled by political strife in recent years, the regional tourism industry is left with a number of beds that well exceeds the number of visitors. I felt quite fortunate to spend a few nights in our yet most luxurious accommodations for a price at par with the cheapest. Despite the rural location, our cottage evenings were sones from silent thanks to the raucous chorus of crickets and birds.
In spite of a truly debilitating stowaway in my stomach, my visit to the park was fairly enjoyable. A guided tour by dugout canoe and return by hike through the jungle gave us some close-ups of menacing amphibians and throngs of tropical birds, insects and trees. Seeing rhinos, wild hogs and deer from the back of an elephant was a novel experience. In reality, the most compelling sight was the posse of fifteen other elephants each diligently schlepping around four passengers and a jockey.
From the thick of the jungle, we bussed to Kathmandu. Ranked in the top ten least livable cities worldwide by the Economist magazine; it did not disappoint. We spent a few days in Thamel amidst an unnavigable maze of pirated DVDs, counterfeit climbing gear, and yes, more German bakeries. We took to the "trail" (loosest definition applies) by mountain bikes. We ascended 500m to overlook to Kathmandu valley and gaze upon a surreal backdrop of some of the tallest peaks in the world; Everest not excluded. Eluded us, did a Himalayan sunrise as we biked through mountain morning fog down unquestionably the worst road I've ever seen in my life (forget Nicaragua). After a day more akin to demolition than exercise, we returned to Thamel for a night before taking to the skies with Buddha Air in a country with one of the world's patchiest aviation safety records.
Not yet ready for shorts and t-shirts, Mike, Poppy and I soaked up the fog in Darjeeling. Surrounded by endless tea plantations strewn about sub-Himalayan topography, Darjeeling brandished yet another interesting component of the Indian populous smorgasbord. Local crafts, snacks and music hybridising Nepali and Bhutanese cultures was rampant in the stone town of steep roads and staircases. The cultural highlite was almost certainly our trip the the sticky-floored Inox cinema for a screening of Michael Jackson's 'This Is It'.
Missing a train was no problem for three high profile western tourists such as ourselves. We subtly hopped aboard the next oversold rickety convoy and slept soundly without interuption for the full overnight to Kolkata. Quite curiously, no bribe was necessary. Kolkata was a veritable festival of absurdity, boisterousness, chaos, and deluxe tourism smashed together into a cultural fruit smoothie. Endless markets of all descriptions of goods (and bads), the finest and filthiest tastes of Bengal, and even a really good rock n roll cover band - there was something remarkable about hearing Zepellin's homage to India's far North as performed by Indians.
With much less white-knuckling, Mike and I made flight aboard India's SpiceJet for an astonishing bargain of a flight to Delhi just in time for his departure to Australia and my mom's arrival from Canada - baggage excluded. The journey continues...
In spite of a truly debilitating stowaway in my stomach, my visit to the park was fairly enjoyable. A guided tour by dugout canoe and return by hike through the jungle gave us some close-ups of menacing amphibians and throngs of tropical birds, insects and trees. Seeing rhinos, wild hogs and deer from the back of an elephant was a novel experience. In reality, the most compelling sight was the posse of fifteen other elephants each diligently schlepping around four passengers and a jockey.
From the thick of the jungle, we bussed to Kathmandu. Ranked in the top ten least livable cities worldwide by the Economist magazine; it did not disappoint. We spent a few days in Thamel amidst an unnavigable maze of pirated DVDs, counterfeit climbing gear, and yes, more German bakeries. We took to the "trail" (loosest definition applies) by mountain bikes. We ascended 500m to overlook to Kathmandu valley and gaze upon a surreal backdrop of some of the tallest peaks in the world; Everest not excluded. Eluded us, did a Himalayan sunrise as we biked through mountain morning fog down unquestionably the worst road I've ever seen in my life (forget Nicaragua). After a day more akin to demolition than exercise, we returned to Thamel for a night before taking to the skies with Buddha Air in a country with one of the world's patchiest aviation safety records.
Not yet ready for shorts and t-shirts, Mike, Poppy and I soaked up the fog in Darjeeling. Surrounded by endless tea plantations strewn about sub-Himalayan topography, Darjeeling brandished yet another interesting component of the Indian populous smorgasbord. Local crafts, snacks and music hybridising Nepali and Bhutanese cultures was rampant in the stone town of steep roads and staircases. The cultural highlite was almost certainly our trip the the sticky-floored Inox cinema for a screening of Michael Jackson's 'This Is It'.
Missing a train was no problem for three high profile western tourists such as ourselves. We subtly hopped aboard the next oversold rickety convoy and slept soundly without interuption for the full overnight to Kolkata. Quite curiously, no bribe was necessary. Kolkata was a veritable festival of absurdity, boisterousness, chaos, and deluxe tourism smashed together into a cultural fruit smoothie. Endless markets of all descriptions of goods (and bads), the finest and filthiest tastes of Bengal, and even a really good rock n roll cover band - there was something remarkable about hearing Zepellin's homage to India's far North as performed by Indians.
With much less white-knuckling, Mike and I made flight aboard India's SpiceJet for an astonishing bargain of a flight to Delhi just in time for his departure to Australia and my mom's arrival from Canada - baggage excluded. The journey continues...
Thursday, October 22, 2009
The only prescription? More cowbell.
"For your kind attention please," echoed the soothing and rather lady-like British voice, "train number 5016 to Bharatpur is reported as being late by 3 hours 30 minutes. The inconvenience is deeply regretted." Not so bad, I suppose, were it not that our train finally departed at 2:30am. Our journeys by rail have otherwise been quite tolerable; seldom arriving more than 30 minutes late. Many-a-nights we've slept cruising across vast distances overnight in seedy sleepers in the company of cheery middle class Indians.
In August past, I was privileged to meet a yoga master while on visit to Freewheeling in Nova Scotia. Upon discovering that I was India-bound, he gleefully extended an invitation to me for to visit his Ashram in Rishikesh. Famous for once having drawn the Beatles into the realm of Indian music, Rishikesh has evolved into just the type of place you'd expect to find fans of the White Album. Mike and I stayed for three days of Yoga, Hindu ceremonies, a dubious rafting adventure on the Ganges and even a bit of post-Delhi/Amritsar R&R. The town was a bit more westernized than I'd have fancied, but treats from any of the thirteen or so German bakeries were much enjoyed.
Mike and I parted for two days; he to the Taj Mahal in Agra and I to Lucknow. Noticeably lesser visited by Westerners, I daresay I felt a bit out of place at times. I was put at ease by several friendly English speaking locals who proudly touted the many gems of their city. A massive mosque and temple complex, the oldest classical music school in India and a celebrity magnet restaurant serving the finest mutton kebab known to... well... citizens of Lucknow.
Our quest for genuine filth led us to the shores of the Ganges in Varanasi. Quite timely our arrival, we celebrated Diwali with lakhs (hundreds of thousands) of locals and foreigners; everyone filling the sky with fireworks from the sun's down until its rise. More somberly during daylight, we visited the burning ghat to see a genuine, exposed, campfire crematorium. Ashes of the recently combusted were siphoned for valuables then tossed into the river only 100m upstream from a well attended holy bathing site.
I now find myself feverish, bedridden and exhausted from fighting off an aggressive Nepali stomach bug. I can only hope for a speedy recover. Tomorrow, 7 hours by bus to Kathmandu.
Here's to staying hydrated!
Please see some photos:
http://www.dancorbett.ca
In August past, I was privileged to meet a yoga master while on visit to Freewheeling in Nova Scotia. Upon discovering that I was India-bound, he gleefully extended an invitation to me for to visit his Ashram in Rishikesh. Famous for once having drawn the Beatles into the realm of Indian music, Rishikesh has evolved into just the type of place you'd expect to find fans of the White Album. Mike and I stayed for three days of Yoga, Hindu ceremonies, a dubious rafting adventure on the Ganges and even a bit of post-Delhi/Amritsar R&R. The town was a bit more westernized than I'd have fancied, but treats from any of the thirteen or so German bakeries were much enjoyed.
Mike and I parted for two days; he to the Taj Mahal in Agra and I to Lucknow. Noticeably lesser visited by Westerners, I daresay I felt a bit out of place at times. I was put at ease by several friendly English speaking locals who proudly touted the many gems of their city. A massive mosque and temple complex, the oldest classical music school in India and a celebrity magnet restaurant serving the finest mutton kebab known to... well... citizens of Lucknow.
Our quest for genuine filth led us to the shores of the Ganges in Varanasi. Quite timely our arrival, we celebrated Diwali with lakhs (hundreds of thousands) of locals and foreigners; everyone filling the sky with fireworks from the sun's down until its rise. More somberly during daylight, we visited the burning ghat to see a genuine, exposed, campfire crematorium. Ashes of the recently combusted were siphoned for valuables then tossed into the river only 100m upstream from a well attended holy bathing site.
I now find myself feverish, bedridden and exhausted from fighting off an aggressive Nepali stomach bug. I can only hope for a speedy recover. Tomorrow, 7 hours by bus to Kathmandu.
Here's to staying hydrated!
Please see some photos:
http://www.dancorbett.ca
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Arrival
Admittedly, I was rather nervous about my arrival. I'd heard dozens of stories on the utter craziness that is New Delhi and had been questioning my ability to handle it. Touchdown came as it must always and I suddenly found myself in the New Delhi Airport, the last fragment of calm I'd see for some time. As it turns out, the stories I'd heard were as close to truth as one could expect. The evening taxi ride to my neighbourhood kept my heart pounding and the 200m walk to the hotel was no less exciting. I decided to save the thrill of Delhi until Mike arrived.
On my first morning, I boarded a flight to Srinagar in Kashmir to spend a few days in the far north. The town, 900,000 strong, was comprised of 95% Muslims and was largely built on the surface of Dal Lake. It was an interesting treat to wake up each morning at 5:30 to the call to prayer echoing eerily around the lake to the houseboat at which I slept.
I traveled 15 hours by jeep along the 400km single lane mountain road to the remote town of Leh, Ladakh. On the cusp of the Himalayas, I found myself surrounded by Tibetan Buddhists and adventurous trekkers, drawn by the incredible scenery and provincial atmosphere. I toured a number of palaces and temples over two days before returning by jeep to Srinagar.
A 7-hour jeep ride and an overnight train from Jammu brought me back to New Delhi and an extra 15° centrigrade along with it. I met Mike the following morning, sweating in anticipatio nof the 38° daily high. We toured some of the big attractions in the city, but we mostly just embraced the unfathomable numbers of people who could mob with remarkable density just about everwhere we went.
On my first morning, I boarded a flight to Srinagar in Kashmir to spend a few days in the far north. The town, 900,000 strong, was comprised of 95% Muslims and was largely built on the surface of Dal Lake. It was an interesting treat to wake up each morning at 5:30 to the call to prayer echoing eerily around the lake to the houseboat at which I slept.
I traveled 15 hours by jeep along the 400km single lane mountain road to the remote town of Leh, Ladakh. On the cusp of the Himalayas, I found myself surrounded by Tibetan Buddhists and adventurous trekkers, drawn by the incredible scenery and provincial atmosphere. I toured a number of palaces and temples over two days before returning by jeep to Srinagar.
A 7-hour jeep ride and an overnight train from Jammu brought me back to New Delhi and an extra 15° centrigrade along with it. I met Mike the following morning, sweating in anticipatio nof the 38° daily high. We toured some of the big attractions in the city, but we mostly just embraced the unfathomable numbers of people who could mob with remarkable density just about everwhere we went.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
A day in the life
Historical fiction?
07:00 Get up. Put away the tent (wet, naturally.) Shake some coherence into your face, maybe go for a quick swim in order to give the impression that you've showered. Fill up on gas and make sure the fruit, granola bars & water jug are all well stocked. Also clean the van interior, it's really stinky. Head to the hotel and start getting the bikes ready.
08:00 Finish up the bikes while the guests eat breakfast. Have a granola bar. Make like you're not totally displeased about being conscious as the guests emerge from breakfast. They're probably equally displeased so work extra hard on your smile. Show the guests where they're going today, telling them where/when you'll be seeing them and bid them farewell on their ride. Panic face. Now run. Get all the luggage into the van (no small feat). Pay the hotel bill (often complicated, time-consuming and really frustrating.)
09:00 Think, "shit, they've been riding 30 minutes already." Drive pretty fast. Go to the first support stop (probably around 15km out.) Park the van and whip out the snacks, water & positive attitude. Wait for the riders. R1 (that speedy mo-fo) shows up at 9:25 and isn't in need so he keeps going. R2&3 arrive 4 minutes later and have a banana each and a quick chat, departing at 9:34. R4 rolls in a minute later and thankfully doesn't want anything. R5 & 6? Who knows where they are? At 9:45 they show up sweating out the half bottle of gin they devoured last night. Keep smiling, but hurry them up. The group is already fragmented enough. 5 & 6 leave at 9:55.
10:00 Get to the grocery store to stock up for lunch. You should probably travel the aisles at a light jog since R1 has covered some serious ground by now. Tidy up the cooler and load up the food. Drive the 20-30km to the second rest stop. R1 shows up right after you and is ready for some water. Keep him lingering in order to diminish the gap (which is surely 45 minutes by now). He's ready to go by by 10:40. Tell him to kick around at the lunch spot, you'll be there by 11:30 (not true). Looks like you've got a few minutes to spare! Maybe fill out some expense sheets, confirm dinner reservations, or just jam on your mandolin/read a book for a bit.
11:00 R2 & 3 show up. 3's brakes are squeaking. Fix them. Top up the water bottles and tell them about our noonish lunch. You'll probably beat them there, but who knows? See them off at 11:10 and wait some more. Wait. Wait. Where are they? 5 & 6 show up 10:20. Amazingly, they've closed the gap a little. Who knows what happened to 4. Neither 5 nor 6 have seen him. Oh well. He'll call sooner or later. Pack up all the stuff and boogie to the lunch spot. Make it by 11:40. Start throwing together a picnic under the watchful eyes of R1. Give him some nachos with salsa to tide him over.
12:00 2 & 3 show up and join 1 in the appetizing. The picnic is starting to take shape, but they must wait until everyone (5 & 6 since there's still no word from 4) arrives to start eating. After 20 minutes of fighting back the decidely famished R1, 5 & 6 show up and it's time to open the floodgates. Minutes later the phone rings. It's 4.
I think I'm lost.
Well, what do you see?
I'm at a road crossing, there's a barn and this long white fence.
Hmmmm... anything more specific? How did you get there?
Well, I went over a wooden bridge about a mile ago.
When you got to [town] did you go left or right at the fork?
uhhh... I don't remember a fork.
I'm suspecting you went right instead of left (which means he's both 20km sidetracked AND illiterate).
I guess that's possible.
I'll come get you. Backtrack to the bridge.
Beeline to where you think 4 is. Put him and his bike in the van and bring him to the picnic. Sit 4 down to lunch just as all the others are standing up from it. Without being too frank, tell him to hurry up and eat.
13:00 Tidy up the lunch spot and put away all the food while 4 stuffs his face. Eat scraps while you do this; it's the best choice for lunch. See the five functional riders off and 20 minutes later, R4. Finish the cleanup, stock up the fruit basket, load the van then hit the road. The next rest stop will be halfway decent since the group has been defragmented (5 & 6 are probably moving at a normal pace and 4 will catch up pretty easily so long as he doesn't get lost.) Get to the rest stop and chill out for 10 minutes.
14:00 R1 arrives and stays for a bit of chit chat. 2 & 3 arrive within 5 minutes and leave with 1 at ten past the hour. Sure enough, 4, 5 and 6 all show up together 10 minutes later. and leave in a matter of minutes. This gives you a perfect 40 minute window to beeline to tonight's accomodation. Start running. Say hi to the innkeeper (who you're sure is wonderful, but you're in a hurry), grab the room keys and attempt to ascertain the ownership of each bags (since, obviously, nobody bothered attaching the luggage tags you gave them on the first day.) Get all the bags into the rooms and return the keys. Rather sweaty, get back in the car to go set up the next support stop.
15:00 Ready the support stop (drinks, snacks, fruit basket and some fresh grapes/cherries or those fancy desert squares that you didn't have the time to spread out at the picnic.) R2 & 3 show up. Evidently R1 picked up the pace and you missed him. They top up the water, have a cherry then leave. To your relief, 4 shows up a minute later, then 5 and 6 not far behind. All three stay for a while and hit the road by half past. Sweet! 20 minutes to kill! Read a chapter.
16:00 Pull into the inn and talk to R1, the first and only to arrive thusfar. Chat with the others as they arrive within 40 minutes. Make sure everybody is comfortably settled and inform them of our 19:30 dinner reservation for which we'll have to depart 20 minutes early.
17:00 Talk to the innkeeper for a while, then excuse yourself to go find a campsite (since you're opposed to commericial campgrounds). This is a special treat since usually you don't have this opportunity before dinner. Pitch the tent and lay out your swag. Go back to the inn; they'll let you use their kitchen to clean the picnic dishes.
18:00 Finish up the dishes and discover that you've got 40 minutes to spare before departure for dinner. Plow through another chapter or two.
19:00 (12 hours moving now) Rally the troops and get driving by ten past the hour. Get seated at the really fancy restaurant by 19:35 and have drinks on the table by :50 (that's water for you, guide). Try the Lobster or the mussels; they're good here. Actually, you're sick of rich foods. Get a salad instead.
20:00 Try to keep from yawning while you wait for entrees. Talk about how great the riding was today. Laugh about R4 getting lost. Try to subtly cool R1's resentment towards his inferiors. Start eating, keeping an eye on everyone else's plate so as to finish right in the middle.
21:00 Order desserts. They're fantastic, like, over-the-top ridiculously awesome. But they take a bloody long time. Pay the bill and get everybody back in the vehicle.
22:00 Return everybody to their rooms at the inn. Try your best to conceal your exhaustion. Be happy that you were able to set up your tent before dinner. Summon some deeply stowed energy to get through another chapter of the book, but don't worry if you give up. In bed by 22:45, not bad. It's a shame you didn't get to ride today. Think about getting up at 6 for a quick spin.
Tomorrow, do it again. :)
Yeah. This is the best job I've ever had and I love 90 percent of the minutes. And that's a damned lot of minutes. Until next spring....
07:00 Get up. Put away the tent (wet, naturally.) Shake some coherence into your face, maybe go for a quick swim in order to give the impression that you've showered. Fill up on gas and make sure the fruit, granola bars & water jug are all well stocked. Also clean the van interior, it's really stinky. Head to the hotel and start getting the bikes ready.
08:00 Finish up the bikes while the guests eat breakfast. Have a granola bar. Make like you're not totally displeased about being conscious as the guests emerge from breakfast. They're probably equally displeased so work extra hard on your smile. Show the guests where they're going today, telling them where/when you'll be seeing them and bid them farewell on their ride. Panic face. Now run. Get all the luggage into the van (no small feat). Pay the hotel bill (often complicated, time-consuming and really frustrating.)
09:00 Think, "shit, they've been riding 30 minutes already." Drive pretty fast. Go to the first support stop (probably around 15km out.) Park the van and whip out the snacks, water & positive attitude. Wait for the riders. R1 (that speedy mo-fo) shows up at 9:25 and isn't in need so he keeps going. R2&3 arrive 4 minutes later and have a banana each and a quick chat, departing at 9:34. R4 rolls in a minute later and thankfully doesn't want anything. R5 & 6? Who knows where they are? At 9:45 they show up sweating out the half bottle of gin they devoured last night. Keep smiling, but hurry them up. The group is already fragmented enough. 5 & 6 leave at 9:55.
10:00 Get to the grocery store to stock up for lunch. You should probably travel the aisles at a light jog since R1 has covered some serious ground by now. Tidy up the cooler and load up the food. Drive the 20-30km to the second rest stop. R1 shows up right after you and is ready for some water. Keep him lingering in order to diminish the gap (which is surely 45 minutes by now). He's ready to go by by 10:40. Tell him to kick around at the lunch spot, you'll be there by 11:30 (not true). Looks like you've got a few minutes to spare! Maybe fill out some expense sheets, confirm dinner reservations, or just jam on your mandolin/read a book for a bit.
11:00 R2 & 3 show up. 3's brakes are squeaking. Fix them. Top up the water bottles and tell them about our noonish lunch. You'll probably beat them there, but who knows? See them off at 11:10 and wait some more. Wait. Wait. Where are they? 5 & 6 show up 10:20. Amazingly, they've closed the gap a little. Who knows what happened to 4. Neither 5 nor 6 have seen him. Oh well. He'll call sooner or later. Pack up all the stuff and boogie to the lunch spot. Make it by 11:40. Start throwing together a picnic under the watchful eyes of R1. Give him some nachos with salsa to tide him over.
12:00 2 & 3 show up and join 1 in the appetizing. The picnic is starting to take shape, but they must wait until everyone (5 & 6 since there's still no word from 4) arrives to start eating. After 20 minutes of fighting back the decidely famished R1, 5 & 6 show up and it's time to open the floodgates. Minutes later the phone rings. It's 4.
I think I'm lost.
Well, what do you see?
I'm at a road crossing, there's a barn and this long white fence.
Hmmmm... anything more specific? How did you get there?
Well, I went over a wooden bridge about a mile ago.
When you got to [town] did you go left or right at the fork?
uhhh... I don't remember a fork.
I'm suspecting you went right instead of left (which means he's both 20km sidetracked AND illiterate).
I guess that's possible.
I'll come get you. Backtrack to the bridge.
Beeline to where you think 4 is. Put him and his bike in the van and bring him to the picnic. Sit 4 down to lunch just as all the others are standing up from it. Without being too frank, tell him to hurry up and eat.
13:00 Tidy up the lunch spot and put away all the food while 4 stuffs his face. Eat scraps while you do this; it's the best choice for lunch. See the five functional riders off and 20 minutes later, R4. Finish the cleanup, stock up the fruit basket, load the van then hit the road. The next rest stop will be halfway decent since the group has been defragmented (5 & 6 are probably moving at a normal pace and 4 will catch up pretty easily so long as he doesn't get lost.) Get to the rest stop and chill out for 10 minutes.
14:00 R1 arrives and stays for a bit of chit chat. 2 & 3 arrive within 5 minutes and leave with 1 at ten past the hour. Sure enough, 4, 5 and 6 all show up together 10 minutes later. and leave in a matter of minutes. This gives you a perfect 40 minute window to beeline to tonight's accomodation. Start running. Say hi to the innkeeper (who you're sure is wonderful, but you're in a hurry), grab the room keys and attempt to ascertain the ownership of each bags (since, obviously, nobody bothered attaching the luggage tags you gave them on the first day.) Get all the bags into the rooms and return the keys. Rather sweaty, get back in the car to go set up the next support stop.
15:00 Ready the support stop (drinks, snacks, fruit basket and some fresh grapes/cherries or those fancy desert squares that you didn't have the time to spread out at the picnic.) R2 & 3 show up. Evidently R1 picked up the pace and you missed him. They top up the water, have a cherry then leave. To your relief, 4 shows up a minute later, then 5 and 6 not far behind. All three stay for a while and hit the road by half past. Sweet! 20 minutes to kill! Read a chapter.
16:00 Pull into the inn and talk to R1, the first and only to arrive thusfar. Chat with the others as they arrive within 40 minutes. Make sure everybody is comfortably settled and inform them of our 19:30 dinner reservation for which we'll have to depart 20 minutes early.
17:00 Talk to the innkeeper for a while, then excuse yourself to go find a campsite (since you're opposed to commericial campgrounds). This is a special treat since usually you don't have this opportunity before dinner. Pitch the tent and lay out your swag. Go back to the inn; they'll let you use their kitchen to clean the picnic dishes.
18:00 Finish up the dishes and discover that you've got 40 minutes to spare before departure for dinner. Plow through another chapter or two.
19:00 (12 hours moving now) Rally the troops and get driving by ten past the hour. Get seated at the really fancy restaurant by 19:35 and have drinks on the table by :50 (that's water for you, guide). Try the Lobster or the mussels; they're good here. Actually, you're sick of rich foods. Get a salad instead.
20:00 Try to keep from yawning while you wait for entrees. Talk about how great the riding was today. Laugh about R4 getting lost. Try to subtly cool R1's resentment towards his inferiors. Start eating, keeping an eye on everyone else's plate so as to finish right in the middle.
21:00 Order desserts. They're fantastic, like, over-the-top ridiculously awesome. But they take a bloody long time. Pay the bill and get everybody back in the vehicle.
22:00 Return everybody to their rooms at the inn. Try your best to conceal your exhaustion. Be happy that you were able to set up your tent before dinner. Summon some deeply stowed energy to get through another chapter of the book, but don't worry if you give up. In bed by 22:45, not bad. It's a shame you didn't get to ride today. Think about getting up at 6 for a quick spin.
Tomorrow, do it again. :)
Yeah. This is the best job I've ever had and I love 90 percent of the minutes. And that's a damned lot of minutes. Until next spring....
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Goals
I've just had a conversation with a man named Steve. Steve has just arrived in Charlottetown by bike, 9 weeks into his Vancouver - St. John's ride. I think if one were so inclined, one could find a blog of mine detailing a very similar ride I went on a few years ago.
In talking to Steve, I was unexpectedly reminded of a lesser discussed component of that bike ride of mine. I've told a lot of stories about the great things that happened to me while traveling: the beautiful days, the wonderful people, the nationalism I felt. I've seldom talked about just how much I struggled to actually complete that trip. On at least 6 occasions, I might have been heard screaming to no-one at the top of my lungs. On as many occasions, I could have been seen sobbing at the side of the road, completely overcome by a feeling of hopelessness. If the solitude-induced emotional roller coaster ride wasn't debilitating enough, by the end of the trip, I was in so much physical pain that I could not tolerate riding my bike for a month afterward. Thinking back, not for for one day beyond Banff was I in any way eager to get out of my sleeping bag and ride. I'm pretty sure I considered quitting multiple times every single day.
But upon arriving at Cape Spear, suddenly all of that was replaced in my mind. What took over was the overwhelming feeling of accomplishment. Hell yeah! I biked across Canada! I don't think I ever forgot about the details, I just chose to ignore them. Questions like, "What was biking across Canada like?" would provoke vague answers like, "amazing" or "incredible" or "life-changing." But what was it actually like? Well... it was hell. It was largely the most unpleasant thing I've ever done. It was so damned physically and emotionally challenging that I had to cry to somebody on the phone most every night.
Since then, crossing Canada has been a critical personal benchmark for me (what could I possibly be incapable of?) I don't think that's unreasonable. The problem is that I think about how I biked across Canada [period], not how I suffered persistently and willfully for weeks to attain some ridiculous goal. I'm not too sure what the conclusion of this is. Perhaps I should adjust my goal-setting practices. I guess I'm just not that into suffering anymore.
In talking to Steve, I was unexpectedly reminded of a lesser discussed component of that bike ride of mine. I've told a lot of stories about the great things that happened to me while traveling: the beautiful days, the wonderful people, the nationalism I felt. I've seldom talked about just how much I struggled to actually complete that trip. On at least 6 occasions, I might have been heard screaming to no-one at the top of my lungs. On as many occasions, I could have been seen sobbing at the side of the road, completely overcome by a feeling of hopelessness. If the solitude-induced emotional roller coaster ride wasn't debilitating enough, by the end of the trip, I was in so much physical pain that I could not tolerate riding my bike for a month afterward. Thinking back, not for for one day beyond Banff was I in any way eager to get out of my sleeping bag and ride. I'm pretty sure I considered quitting multiple times every single day.
But upon arriving at Cape Spear, suddenly all of that was replaced in my mind. What took over was the overwhelming feeling of accomplishment. Hell yeah! I biked across Canada! I don't think I ever forgot about the details, I just chose to ignore them. Questions like, "What was biking across Canada like?" would provoke vague answers like, "amazing" or "incredible" or "life-changing." But what was it actually like? Well... it was hell. It was largely the most unpleasant thing I've ever done. It was so damned physically and emotionally challenging that I had to cry to somebody on the phone most every night.
Since then, crossing Canada has been a critical personal benchmark for me (what could I possibly be incapable of?) I don't think that's unreasonable. The problem is that I think about how I biked across Canada [period], not how I suffered persistently and willfully for weeks to attain some ridiculous goal. I'm not too sure what the conclusion of this is. Perhaps I should adjust my goal-setting practices. I guess I'm just not that into suffering anymore.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Jazz
Presently, the Atlantic Canada Jazz Festival is underway. I'm amazed at the quality of local music and the responsiveness of the audiences. I'm weaseling my way into as many shows as possible as a festival volunteer photographer.
More critically now: I recently spent 7 months working aboard a cruise ship as a trombone player. Thinking back, my rationale for taking the job was that having devoted four years of my college-aged life to studying music, I might as well be a professional musician for a while. This conflicted with my better judgment at the time.
I found life on the ship pretty depressing. I assumed and have preached that my depression was linked to ship-life: confinement, monotony, bad food, etc. After leaving the ship and arriving in Halifax, life was great! Great job, great friends, great environment. And then one day, at my request, a friend visiting from Toronto brought to me my trombone.
I started practicing, met some other musicians, felt some excitement about jazz. I went to a jam session. I just played one song. And I hated it passionately. I hated being on stage, I hated the atmosphere, I hated what I played and I hated how I played it. I even hated hearing three people say, "Man, you were awesome." I wanted to tell them they were full of shit, but all that came out was, "thanks." I went home with a cloud over my head, a cloud whose shadow has not been cast over me since my last few weeks on the ship.
Could it be? I've always had a self-confidence issue with my trombone playing, but to think playing trombone could cause me to become depressed. Perhaps I should wait for a spike in the price of brass and have the old 3B melted down for some cash.
More critically now: I recently spent 7 months working aboard a cruise ship as a trombone player. Thinking back, my rationale for taking the job was that having devoted four years of my college-aged life to studying music, I might as well be a professional musician for a while. This conflicted with my better judgment at the time.
I found life on the ship pretty depressing. I assumed and have preached that my depression was linked to ship-life: confinement, monotony, bad food, etc. After leaving the ship and arriving in Halifax, life was great! Great job, great friends, great environment. And then one day, at my request, a friend visiting from Toronto brought to me my trombone.
I started practicing, met some other musicians, felt some excitement about jazz. I went to a jam session. I just played one song. And I hated it passionately. I hated being on stage, I hated the atmosphere, I hated what I played and I hated how I played it. I even hated hearing three people say, "Man, you were awesome." I wanted to tell them they were full of shit, but all that came out was, "thanks." I went home with a cloud over my head, a cloud whose shadow has not been cast over me since my last few weeks on the ship.
Could it be? I've always had a self-confidence issue with my trombone playing, but to think playing trombone could cause me to become depressed. Perhaps I should wait for a spike in the price of brass and have the old 3B melted down for some cash.
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