CHAMONIX IN JULY: THE ARGENTIÈRE GLACIER

CHAMONIX IN JULY: THE ARGENTIÈRE GLACIER                          NICOLE FANDEL

We had left the steep curving mountain path and the trees behind us. Our hiking shoes crunched on gravel at every step, gently. You’d think that trekking on a glacier would be slippery, but no, the July sun had melted the snow at this level and walking was easy. Around us Mont Blanc, Mont Maudit and a string of white summits scrolled against the blue sky: the usual stunning Chamonix background setting.

            Nicole, my friend, and her father Robi, a veteran of the Compagnie des Guides de Chamonix, were taking me on a seven hour trip on the Argentière Glacier: a treat  but also a true challenge: me being a bit on the wimpy side. No way could I have done this alone, and no way would I have gone with my son who lives there whose mantra is Peak experience! I was in good hands and tried to limit my ohs and ahs! To say the truth I was on my best behavior having a bit of a crush on Robi who had climbed the tallest peaks, guided many pros, and still won international acclaim although well in his sixties. 

He went first, Nicole last. I followed his instructions to the letter:

“ Regular even pace, save your energy and your breath. No talk. On the glacier, you put

your foot in my track as I go. My step, your step. Just put your foot where my foot was.

Steady. No stopping. No thinking. C’est tout!”

Nicole added: ”We’ll make a mountaineer out of you!”

Robi set the pace.  My eyes straight ahead, I followed.  Unromantically, the ground was a mixture of crushed stones mixed with coarse grains of grey ice: it is the summer melt called ‘névé’ about 5 meters deep.  It reminded me of the dirty snow lining  New England’s roads at the end of  a rough winter. We are far down from the glacier top where ice prisms colored by the sun shimmer like an enchanted city against the sky.

I know we are on a moving mountain, a frozen river gliding down, apparently motionless but relentless. This always blows my mind. Ever since I was a child I was fascinated by books on alpinism. The fact that I lived in Belgium, the flattest country after the well named Netherland, might account for that passion for mountains!  Realizing that my mind was wandering, I concentrated on Robi’s feet and mine.

Then time stopped! Deep down between my feet, within the space of a footstep,

 I saw two vertical slabs: two walls of the whitest white lined by a few black shadows and way, way down a large patch of dazzling, illuminating, rich, deep ultramarine blue bursting in my eyes.  It moved me into another realm.  There I stood: hypnotized, mesmerized by that mix of danger, extreme beauty and otherworldliness.  I was touching the soul of the earth. Words like infinite, eternal, supernatural and spiritual were dancing in my head.

“ Hé, ho!  You missed two steps!”

            “ Robi, I saw my first crevasse! It is positively a religious experience! I felt one with the world. It is magic!”

            “ Mon Dieu! Glad you like it. Many people don’t even notice them, or if they do,  they shrieck, jump, and act crazy! Allez! En avant!”

We resumed the steady pace with that blue still swimming in my eyes. It will stay with me till I die: the day time stopped as I straddled the soul of the earth.

Musings of an experienced nomad

SACRED   COWS   STORIES   IN   KATHMANDU                        NICOLE FANDEL

                                                                                                                             08/12/2013

          The best way to discover Kathmandu is on foot. You find yourself walking alongside city dressed businessmen, beautiful women in bright colored flowing dresses, kids of all ages in impeccably pressed school uniforms, old men and women enjoying the sun, and an occasional hard faced man carrying a heavy burlap sack bigger than him on his back held by a strap covering his brow. You also see bunches of tourists from everywhere: some post-hippies, some seasoned traveling types and some “trekkers”. They tend to gather at street corners to cross the roads as a group. I usually join them, knowing there is safety in numbers! The traffic seems to know when to give in!

            My hotel is at the end of a small street off Lazimpath, a main road close to the King’s Palace and dotted with a few embassies. It used to be airy and tree lined, it is now, eight years later, a crazy mixture of cars, minibuses and motorbikes, all using their horns instead of brakes. Add a few cycled or motorized rickshaws and you have a lively situation and quite a spectacle. Walking in that city is a pleasure and an endless adventure for me.

            During my first trip in Nepal, I had made an interesting friend. At the corner of my hotel street and Lazimpath, sitting on a pile of garbage as high as me, a large cow actually nodded at me each time I passed as I waved at her. She disappeared at night, no one knowing where she went, but she was always back in the morning. I wonder how she managed to climb up there…

            Now, the pile of trash and the cow have been replaced by an ultra slick mini store selling toothbrushes, souvenirs, bottled water and snacks. I hope my friend, the sacred cow, found another soft and warm place to watch the world go by. Everyone knows that the Hindu religion protects and reveres cows. They are allowed to roam free through the cities, undisturbed. The actual sight of a cow in the middle of a road in a busy modern city traffic at rush hour being avoided by buses, cars and motorbikes is heart wrenching! There she is, peacefully walking or just lying, right next to you as you ride by… not getting hit. Miraculous!

           

            I spent endless hours visiting Hindu and Buddhist temples and learned a lot about Nepalese people, their hybrid mix of customs and their beliefs, asking questions to everyone I met. Each day I returned to the hotel around at five o’clock for an English conversation with “ the boys”. Indeed, four of the hotel’s young student waiters had asked me to improve their English. Although they worked non-stop from 6 am to 9 pm, they had organized to meet with me every day for a one hour conversation class in the hotel’s garden. The tradition was to speak first about our day, to talk about Nepal and then to listen to some songs in English… and learn them. As a treat for me, they always brought a tray with a carafe of bottled water mixed with freshly squeezed tiny limes served with ice cubes. 

            They had grown fond of a Beatles song and wished to practice it that day, That’s when my cassette player died. Total disappointment! I asked if they knew somebody who could repair it. They all said: “New Road!” Then proceeded to give me simple directions to find the repair shop. ” Go to the end of Lazimpath and on to Kantipath, turn right at New Road, after hospitals.”  They gave me a map carefully drawn with the shop’s number. The next morning, I was off to New Road, the modern shopping part of town.  I basically crossed half of the city. I had turned right after the hospital but couldn’t see the name of any road and started to wonder if I was lost.  I sensed somebody walking behind me and decided to ask if I was on the right road. I turned around … and found myself nose to nose with a large black cow. She looked at me, I looked at her, patted her gently on the soft fuzzy part of her “muzzle” and mumbled: “I guess I’ll ask somebody else.” and walked off. She followed me, peacefully.

           

           The tiny dark shop was just two blocks away. I handed my cassette player to a nice young man who took it gently apart on his desk.  He looked at the pieces, nodded, and dipped his finger into a large jar sitting on a shelve. Then he rubbed his well greased finger on various part of the mechanism, and put everything together again.  He clicked on the start button and it worked like magic!

            Seeing how impressed I was, he smiled shyly.  I thanked him and asked “How much?”  He said the equivalent of 75 cents. I gave him a dollar.  He said:

            ”Too much!”. I said: “No, no, please.” He went in a drawer and gave me a well wrapped candy, saying ”OK?”  I answered ”OK! Thank you”, and added: “I love Kathmandu.”   His smiled broadened and we exchanged “Namaste”.

             All that walking had tired me, so I took a rickshaw back to the hotel and got ready to teach some English. The boys came in the garden carrying the tray with rattling ice cubes. I had my pencil and paper ready … and the Beatles were singing “Yesterday” on the cassette player. Another good day in Kathmandu.  

            Just looking at the variety of Nepalese faces one can see a mosaic of many Himalayan ethnic groups: the Tamang farmers, the Gurkhas warriors, the mountain  Sherpas,  the Newars artisans and the Tibetans, to name only a few.

            Being given a diversity of origins and beliefs, tolerance is a must. In fact, proselytism is forbidden. I admire Nepal in many ways, but mostly for a quality that is getting so rare: respect and peaceful coexistence of two different religions:  Hinduism and Buddhism, with, more recently, a secular touch added after the king’s demise. I wish that wonderful country Grace and Peace. 

           

            I hear there are still many sacred cows on the streets of Kathmandu, right in the middle of traffic, being circumnavigated. I hear you still get more jail time if you hit a cow than if you hit a person. I also hear that the Nepali police has started rounding up the cows off the roads lately in order to minimize car accidents. I hear they are sent in smaller cities or mountain villages. I wonder if they miss the excitement and what they are munching on. I wish them a meadow full of their favorite flowers… and a few stray tourists to pat the fuzzy part of their muzzle.

Roundabout The Basque Country

                                                               

         

                  All I had was one week. My plan was to rent a car and discover the Basque Country that straddles the Pyrenees between Spain and France. The Basque people‘s independent spirit had always fascinated me. These proud, rugged mountaineers speak a language whose origin nobody knows. They wear berets and espadrilles, they eat well, sing well, and play “pelota”, a unique ball game already played in medieval times. Just as any American park has a baseball or a basketball area, every Basque village has a “fronton” wall where village teams play against each other on Saturdays. That’s the basics. I wanted more. I reread “Shibumi”, the Trevanian spy thriller that took place in the French Basque area and singled out a few villages to explore.

                  My rented car was waiting for me in Biarritz, a sea resort famous for its glitzy casinos and health spas in the early 1900s. More recently it has become a surfing capital. I took off across the Pyrenees to Pamplona. My car and I felt light and happy in spite of rain and clouds. I don’t actually know when I entered Spain seeing no barriers, nor border crossing signs but thanked the European Union for making it so painless. I felt free and adventurous. But soon, on a mountain pass, the landscape disappeared in a fog as thick as pea soup. I decided to find protection and lodged myself between two huge trucks, my eyes safely glued on truck number one’s left red light. Eventually, the fog dissipated on the way down the Spanish side and I stopped to breathe and unclench my teeth in a roadside café. Over a double espresso and a pastry suggested by the owner, I asked him if he could help me find the easiest way to my hotel in Pamplona. He said with a big smile:

     

      “Easy! From here, just follow Pamplona signs, then, in the city, follow the “hospitales” signs. Your hotel is across from the hospitals, avenido Pie XII.”  He draws me a straight line with many circles all across the line, explaining:

      “ Muchas, muchas rotondas … dies o      mas… just follow “ hospitales”.

I thank him, take the precious drawing, and hit the road to Pamplona. The radio is playing Basque songs and I hum along. Once in town, at the third “rotonda”, I realize I’d better watch more closely as the number of signs and options multiplied. I know some Spanish, but this situation called for careful driving, speed reading, and putting the turn signals on cue, simultaneously.

I go around quite a few large rotaries and then, facing a huge one with a menu of seven different choices on its panel, I enter boldly in the second road. Fatal mistake. I soon find myself in the old part of town, complete with medieval walls, small cluttered houses in narrow cobbled streets, following a trash collector truck. 

“Good! That gives me time to think.” Eventually the truck turns left, I decide to go straight ahead … and end up rolling slowly over an old wooden drawbridge. I heard myself say:

“ Wow! Is this real or am I in a time travel movie?  That couldn’t happen in Boston!”

Eventually, I find myself out of the old town and stop a nice old gentleman to ask him:      

“ Por favor, que direction por avenido Pie XII.” He looks at me with horror and says:

      “ Muy, muy lechos (very far) !”

      “Si, que direction por favor?”

He points ahead and adds :

      “Todo derecho (straight ahead)!” I ask: “ Derecho como asi?” and I show him my arm straight, or como asi?” and I draw many circles with my fingers.  He laughs and says:

      “Muchas rotondas. Siempre direction “hospitales”. He adds: “ beeeg houses!”

I giggle, thank him and take off. As I look back in the mirror, he is still waving good bye.

            The return trip was smoother, but I have to confess that, shamelessly, I went around a large rotary 3 times, just to make sure… My hotel was indeed right there, just across from the hospitals. I slept well that night.

            In the morning, I left my car at the hotel and took a taxi to go and visit the city on foot, following Hemingway’s footsteps in the city he described so well in his novel “The Sun Also Rises”. No bulls in sight, though! I also found out that, all by myself, I managed to, by chance, go through a very famous 16^th century drawbridge called “Puerta de Francia”!  How’s that for a welcome from Pamplona!

            The sun was shining the next day, and the mountain roads, although quite narrow, were nearly empty for my ride back through the Pyrenees. I was on top of the world and could see miles and miles away… That’s when I learned to deal with the unavoidable impatient local drivers sticking to my bumpers. I keep cool, try to spot a space on the right where I can fit (there are quite a few), I put the blinkers on, and he (it always was a “he”!!) squeezes and passes as I wave with a big, generous and understanding smile. That’s the fun part!  

            In order to ensure greater freedom and potential for adventure, I had no hotel reservation for the week. So, I decided, there and then, to go to Saint-Jean-de-Luz to spend the night by the sea. After all, it is from that harbor that Basque sailors went to America, some with Magellan, and others to California and Argentina as sheepherders in the 1800s.

             I drove straight to the town’s “Office du Tourisme” and asked my usual request: a reasonable family run “nice” hotel outside the city, in this case as close as possible to the sea. The woman looked at me, smiling and said: “ I think I have exactly what you’d like. Let me see.” Her long red fingernails clicked on the computer keyboard. A few more clicks, a run to the printer and she showed me the printed photo of the hotel with prices and pictures of rooms. Perfect! Done. In no time, I had a room, reserved and paid at Hotel BelAir, right off the beach with a view of the whole bay. Prudently, I asked her to mark my way out of town in RED on the map. Miraculously, I made it: no rotondas (ronds-points in French), nor false turns.

            The time has come to pause and explain my ronds-points fixation. Here is the story. It all happened a few years ago in Paris at the Champs-Élysées.  I remember hearing myself scream  “Never again!” as I was going for the second time around the 12 lanes of la Place de l’Étoile. It was gorged with a mess of Parisians pressing around me and forcing my small car near the center where the Arc de Triomphe was staring at me, proud and aloof. That is when I lost it. I leaned on the horn and literally plowed my way into the chaos and veered into avenue Mac Mahon unscathed. That night, in my hotel’s comfortable bed, I vowed to avoid driving through large cities in the future and use public transportation and my feet to get around, stop or go as I wish. Thanks to that wise decision my love affair with Paris is still alive and thriving, but the memory lingers…

The BelAir Hotel was practically on the beach. I parked my car in the yard and registered. A nice young man, introducing himself as the owner’s son brought my suitcase up in the room. With  a big smile he said: ”Voilà!”, as he dramatically opened the window, “ the Promenade, the beach, the Bay, the Atlantic… and America on the other side. We don’t serve dinner but you’ll find a few nice places on the Promenade. Bon séjour, madame.”  That evening, after a leisurely walk along the boardwalk, I had a spectacular salad topped with a mix of local seafood, elegantly arranged on a huge plate, accompanied by a carafe of brisk white wine and a musical background provided by the waves. Heaven by the sea!

            When I checked out the next morning, another owner’s son was at the desk. He asked me where I was going today. I showed him my tentative plans on my huge map of France, telling him I wanted to go deep into the Basque mountain villages, get to know the culture a bit, and stay there if I like it… but I only had 4 days! He smiled, asked me a few questions, then drew a bold line on a fresh map and explained why I should see this one and not that one, and absolutely this one: Urdax. I’ll know why when I see it! He also offered to reserve one night in a super but fairly priced hotel that they had discovered recently in Saint-Etienne-de-Baïgorry … with a cook to die for… a treat after all the driving that day. I agreed that it would be fantastic and left with a personalized itinerary, a clearly marked small handy map, and a room reserved for the night… or more… if I wished. This reinforced my conviction that one should always ask ”the natives” where to go. They know best! 

            That first day spent driving on small winding mountain roads was simply perfect. My first stop was in Sare, marked in red on my new map! I lined up to get into the little cogwheel train that climbs the La Rhune peak (905m.). Up it went, clunking. From the top, one could see the Atlantic, Spain and France. Actually, that day, it took a bit of imagination, since very determined but shapely clouds took over the show. On the way down, sturdy small Basque horses were grazing on the slopes. They are “pottoks” whose ancestors were drawn in nearby caves 10,000 years ago. The rest of the day was spent driving peacefully, gaping at the scenery and discovering the Basque history through each village. Some were full of tourists, some were sleepy, and some totally deserted. As I went, history unfolded itself: the Romans mined lead in  Urepel, in the 17^th century, copper and silver mines put Banca on the map, and that one can still visit a 18^th century iron foundry in Saint-Etienne-de-Baïgorry. That’s where I had an exquisite dinner in the hotel’s terrace: grilled trout fresh from the Nive river gurgling gently at the foot of this picture perfect village.

            All along the road I saw the shell shaped signs that had guided pilgrims since the 12^th century as they passed through the Basque country on the Way to Santiago de Compostella. They stopped overnight in shelters and local monasteries. Indeed, each village had its own church. Always open, cool and calm, these rugged survivors of wars and time, a mix of Medieval, Romanesque and Baroque, still offer rest and shelter to all. I sat there often, admiring the naïvely painted statues of saints and the religious scenes retelling the same story in various ways, the Basque ways. That‘s where I promised myself to come back and live in a Basque village for a while with time to learn how they maintain their own culture in this crazy global modern world we live in, and to meet some locals.  Perhaps, I’ll even find a grand-mother who would tell me her secret to make a perfect “pipérade”: that heavenly Basque omelette I love so much…

            The last day, as I rested near a fountain looking at the red and white houses in a sleepy village, I saw a surreal eagle flying majestically over me, back and forth, high up there. Time stopped. I felt for a moment that we were the only beings left on earth, at peace with the world.

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