c u on top - satyabrata dam

WIND FROM A DISTANT SUMMIT. The story of New Zealand’s leading woman mountaineer. By Pat Deavoll. Pp 264, paperback, 29 colour and 2 b/w photos, 2011. (Craig Cotton Publishing, New Zealand, NZ$ 39.99) The subtitle of the book is a misnomer since Pat is one of the world’s top all round alpinist today redefining boundaries and breaking barriers of mind, body and soul in the vertical arena of high mountains. Of her climbing prowess, iron will and reckless passion the mountaineering world is aware but who would have imagined that she wielded equal finesse and grace with her pen! That too when she could only finish it due to the publisher’s deadline. I am not known for embellishments but for Pat’s book the only word I have is ‘unputdownable’ and even then it is an understatement. I am not sure if writing this book was a redefining period in Pat’s life but for the reader it would surely be a redefining experience as we climb sheer virgin faces of rock and ice with Pat, often fragile, bro

Nearly a week ago I returned from a climb, which under normal conditions should have been no more than a walk in the park; yet I returned with first degree frost bite in my digits, the last two fingers of my right palm numb and black in particular. How did that happen is the gist of this story. With daily dousing of digits in warm water, constant rubbing and sunning them, the worst is over and I can type now albeit phlegmatically, so today I will take you all back up into my world; a world from where I had been absent for quite some time. The area and the trail that I am about to reveal here are places I don’t want people to go, at least not those who litter mountain wilderness with plastic and rubbish and who play loud music or go in herds; so no names will be given, or fictitiously when given. Those who know me well and have read my earlier stories would perhaps be able to guess anyway. Now to begin with how the seed of this trip came along… Over the entire October followed by

What is a story? Is it only a collection of memories, fact or fictional, emotive, evocative, startling or banal at times, or memorable or just plain recounting of events as they happened; an eyewitness account of incidents, places, people, atmosphere, smells, feelings, emotions… I have told you many stories both in my verbosity and in my silence through my blog, columns, features and this time too there’s so much to tell and to share, but however we may wish to share or want to hear, the stories would never end, because all stories even when they are worthy of telling, are never told. Thus would be the fate of many such stories of my recent European trip, where within the span of nearly six weeks I flashed through eight countries, briefly touching a ninth; following much of the tourist trails where I have never walked before, and also to some spots where few ever walk upon. So the first story that I wish to put up here is a summary, a tiny nutshell that kind of encompasses and even d

I have barely few hours left: not of this life (don’t panic!) but before my European saga comes to its predestined conclusion. I am in Rome right now, tapping these words out, and my flight to Delhi departs in few hours. Zipping all over through 8 different countries and perhaps 50 odd places, crossing language and culture zones and time zone once I met and befriended an incredible number of people, visited places I wouldn’t have dreamt of visiting before or hence. And today as I try to recall exactly what all had happened during the past 40 days or so, I find that my mind predominantly and primarily keeps going back to the people who made it possible; so I begin my tale by acknowledging the ones I still remember and the ones my mind can’t recall now, but if they ever come across this post, they would know that they are acknowledged in spirit if not by individual names. My deepest gratitude to all my friends, both old and new ones I made this time, and for all the kindness, generosit

How to tail tourists with a twist in the tale I take pride in my obscurity and penchant for going boldly into places most men or women have never gone before. I take this occupation of mine rather seriously and stick to it to the best of my inabilities. My friends constantly rebuff me as to the complete uselessness of my sordid life since I know nothing about the finest dine and wine or bars and night clubs of Paris or Milan. And when I tell them that I know of places that are not mentioned in atlases, somehow that doesn’t impress them much. Cut in to the year 2011, months of October to November and I am headed for Europe for around 40 days. Where are you climbing, which new routes are you eyeing, would we see you in Zermatt, Grindelwald or Chamonix or the Dolomites or in the Bavarian Alps, my friends and fans throw at me to which I only smile mysteriously letting them steam in their curiosity. But to tell you the truth through this post, even I can’t believe where all I am headed

This would be my last and final post on people I befriended in Afghanistan. I know all the Afghan stories have not been told and they never will be since my Afghan Affair will continue as long as I breathe. Neither have I told of all the people I met; only a few, which is not to say that these were more important or indelible in my memory than all the others I befriended and walked with. I have told of the little girl in the black but her pretty friend was no less impish or charming; I have narrated the story of our cab driver Carry but our other drivers were no less courageous or resourceful or hard working; I have told you of the shopkeeper Dawood but then all the others were equally welcoming and smiling. I will not be telling about the brick layer Naseeruddin with the leather deerstalker cap who, on hearing there was one Urdu speaking Indian lost in his village, walked 22 km just so he could come and speak to me and find out if I needed any help and walked back the same nigh

Ameena Bibi found me slipping and sliding down a steep scree covered hill, the trail that led directly towards her house with a mud wall. She stood outside suckling an infant to her breast. She must have noticed me long ago, as I was literally skiing down the hill from far above with massive dust storm of black and brown following at my heels. I have just had close encounters of the Afghan kind all over the village outside of Eishkashim, where young kids had taken me through green fields of peas and maize, where women had invited me inside their dark gloomy houses for tea, where men and kids have posed for me to take their pictures and where old and young, men and women alike have given me countless reasons to smile. I must have seemed like a madman intent on killing himself to the woman (though that isn’t that far from the absolute truth). Braking with my battered knees isn’t easy and I had almost zipped off into the sizeable stream to which the trail led when I came to a halt with

The day is gay; wind is kind; and the green fields are dancing in the halcyon breeze. The glacier fed streams are gurgling along as I dip my feet into the cold water and lay upon the grass to rest. I am not dead but I am in paradise, or very close to it. My horizon is decked with white crested peaks upon peak, woolly clouds etch their trail across the sparkling blue sky and birds sing their joyful melody while butterflies and honeybees buzz around sucking nectar from the million yellow and violet flowers that the valley is awash with. Happy and simple people are passing by, pushing or pulling their donkeys or wheelbarrows, sickle or shovel on their backs, pretty women decked in startling variety of colourful dresses are scattered across the meadows minding their cows and goats. And little children are just about everywhere. They are swinging from the trees, they are jumping into puddles, they are chasing the dogs, they are climbing to the roofs, they are bothering their mothers for

In a land where it is nearly impossible to make someone smile for the camera, Shukur is an oddity. It is nearly impossible to make him stop smiling, on or off the camera. I first noticed Shukur when he came along with the Kheret guesthouse keeper to serve us evening tea. While the score of people gathered in the room ogled us with various expressions on their weather-beaten faces, this one boy (couldn’t be more than 25) laughed and smiled openly at all of us, especially at the two ladies in my company. He didn’t seem curious rather extremely jocular and merry at seeing us; though I later realized that he is merry about everything since I never ever saw anything but a radiant smile on this simpleton’s face. What endeared him to all of us were his pantomime abilities. Through silent gestures and hand movements he could make us understand exactly what he conveyed and in turn could interpret our gestures. He said his name is Shukur. My first conversation with Shukur was filled with s

I walked rapidly upon the muddy trail by the river Wakhan looking for our return vehicle to Eishkashim. A month ago, when we had bid goodbye to our interpreter Dawood, we had asked him to send us a vehicle on the predicated date of our return from the climb to the Kheret Village, our road head. We had descended two days before, at least I had, and we had absolutely no idea if any vehicle was indeed coming for us. So I took off on my pursuit to find the driver and the car that would be our only salvation. I had walked for a day and half and had crossed about two vehicles (all going the wrong way with tourists) and yet clueless if we were destined to depart soon enough before our visa expired. At a place, I crossed a tiny village of few houses, scattered randomly over the wide brown ridges of the hills. And beneath the village, right beside the road I find one of those Toyota Vans that they don’t manufacture anymore and is usually found all along the silk road. These are oversized box