What makes me tick?


Fishing around on my friend Pier-Andrea's blog the other day I found his visual DNA - a collection of images hes selected, which strung together represent his take on life. Its an interesting concept and if you scroll down past the labels and links you'll find my cluttered collection of x&y chromosomes represented in picture form. The whole thing got me thinking though about if I had to represent myself (not the me that goes to work every morning or the me that goes out with friends or curls up with a book but the real 'me') which images would I choose? And so my reflexions started.

This all kind of links in nicely with the fact that since i'm back from that little Irish jaunt i've had this niggling, gnawing feeling that something is missing, and after a weeks deliberation I think i've identified it. I'm craving the open road.

Let me be a little more precise. Its not just the road i'm craving, but the car, and the driving; the feeling of liberty and the spontaneity that comes with 4 wheels and a full tanks of fuel. Something that has been all too absent in my life the last couple of years.



I grew up in an area where a car was essential. From the aged of 7 I was saving frantically for my first car and have always loved driving, yet I haven't owned a car for the last 12 or 13 years and I now climb into a plane more often than I get into a car, let alone drive.

Driving and the open roads are however not the only thing that makes me 'me'. If I could choose where i'd want to be whenever I have time it would definitely be up a mountain.

I've been lucky enough to trek and hike in many beautiful places, two of which i've found truly awesome. Awesome in the true sense of the world in that i'm left dumb by the impact of the scenery; the vastness and strength of it. Trekking in the Annapurna region first did this to me in Nepal in 2000. I remember waking up early one morning, climbing on to the roof of my hut and watching Annapurna's silhouette slowly turn pink as the sun rose.



At that moment in time I left so small, so insignificant, and yet at the same time so young. Young because unlike us adults who simply recognise the environment around us and take little notice of the details I felt more like a child watching the world for the first time; noticing leaves, stones, wildlife and seeing how it all knitted together.
El Chalten in Argentina had the same effect on me. Faced with one of the most stunning vistas i've ever seen I took literally hundreds of photos of the same view, realising now that I wasn't trying to capture the image I saw but more the emotions I was feeling sat before that image.



Looking at the photos now its difficult to conjure up those same emotions, whats not difficult to materialise is the craving to relive those same or similar moments.

There is one other activity that I think totally liberates 'me' and gives me a similar childlike sensation and one that again I find myself doing very rarely; flying my kite.
I remember my first kite. I remember failed attempts at making kites during school holidays and I remember the sting and burn as the rope has run across the folds of my fingers on countless occasions but what I remember most of all is how I feel when I fly my kite. The Australian cartoonist 'Leunig' sums it up best...




Why does kite flying do this to me? Maybe because being able to fly properly involves being out in the country or on the coast, preferably without too many people around. Perhaps its because being up high helps where the wind is stronger and more fickle in its currents. I guess there are all kinds of analogies that could be drawn but honestly the reason is not important, its the sensation and emotion that counts for me, and hence kite flying is an integral part of who I am, even if I dont get to do it that often.

The psychologists and therapists amongst you are now probably all brimming with theories and facts that will enable you to compartmentalise me into one of your little boxes but although the images of my visual DNA described above may differ from those on the VisualDNA website i'll stick with their definition of my character type thanks.

If you get a chance do check out their site and do the test yourself. If you feel like sharing drop the code for your DNA or the images you'd choose to represent yourself into a comment. Lets see what makes everyone else out there tick.

Asian Journal - Chapter 5 - In the kingdom of the Gods (April 2000)

“I salute the God within you” or “Namaste!” as they say in Nepal! Getting on that jet plane from Bangkok to Kathmandu has to have been one of the happiest flights of my life. Not only was I glad to finally be leaving Thailand but I was now almost within reach of one of my lifetime goals – Nepal. With its holy cows wandering the streets and Buddhist carvings in every nook & cranny, Kathmandu was everything I was expecting, and a whole lot more! No more aggressive taxi driver’s, just very friendly faces wishing you “Namaste” every which way you turn. Getting to grips with the city took a bit of time as none of the streets were named, so I spent my first day repeatedly getting lost then finding myself on the steps of another magnificent Stompa or Gumpa decked with colourful Buddist prayer flags. It seems plenty of lost people come to Nepal to ‘find’ themselves, and the place certainly has its fair share of travellers looking for spiritual enlightenment. A hang over from Nepal’s backpacker roots, as getting high (both in the chemical and physical sense of the word) was the original form of tourism. I arrived in Nepal just in time to celebrate Nepalese New Year, the main festival of which takes place in Bakthurpur about an hour out of Kathmandu. I’d met up with a German guy so together we took the bus over and joined in the party, and some party it was! 50,000 Nepalese, mostly men and mostly drunk crowded into the old city for the day and then a good percentage of these took part in the age old Nepalese tradition of street fighting to welcome in the New Year! Things got a little hairy to say the least and I was more than pleased I’d found a tall European guy to hide behind. When things got a little to scary we decided to head back to Kathmandu, only to find all the bus drivers had had their fair share of merriment leaving us stuck in town. Next morning saw the town in ruins and I was surprised to hear only 3 people were killed the night before, but apparently that’s a normal start to New Year in Nepal and otherwise the year 2057 started without a hitch! Having had more than enough of crowds I decided it was time to leave the city and head for the hills so packed the rucksack and took the bus West. Situated at the base of the awesome Annapurna Mountains alongside a beautiful lake, Pokhara is a wonderful place to chill out for a couple of days, which is exactly what I did. Whilst mooching around the town I met up with Giles from Bristol who planned to do roughly the same trek as me, so over a couple of litres of lemon tea a plan was hatched. Neither of us wanted to trek by ourselves due to the recent upsurge in Maoist activity in the area. A couple of the tourist hotels in town had been the victims of armed assaults in the previous week and there were reports of further attacks in the woods so everyone was more than a little nervous. The Maoists had already spoilt my plans once by attacking a rafting group out on the Karnali River and therefore making the area too dangerous to enter so I wasn’t about to let them interfere with my trekking! Having spoken to a local guide we planned a route that would take us from Pokhara at just over 800m, up the Kali Gandaki River route used by Maurice Herzog in1950 and into the Annapurna Mountains. From here we’d continue to climb until we reached Muktinath, our highest possible point at just below 4,000m. After spending a day or too acclimatising ourselves there we would then drop down a way and go up into the Annapurna Sanctuary which is a natural amphitheatre in the mountains with access to the Annapurna Base Camp at just over 4,000m. This route had been closed for the last 2 weeks as avalanches had blocked the pass, but we’d been given the all clear by the mountain guide so off we set. The first part of the journey entailed a gruelling 4-hour taxi ride into the mountains to Beni from where we’d commence trekking. Two hours into the trip I was close to vomiting and bleeding from where my head kept hitting the roof of the car! This was not how things were supposed to happen, but finally we arrived in Beni and the trip began for real. Over the next 5 days we climbed slowly and steadily through stunning forests and terraced farmland with snow-covered peaks towering over us. The weather was with us and most of the 12Kg I was carrying was water to avoid dehydration under the blazing sun. The remaining weight was 90% Snickers bars to supplement the mountain stable diet of Dal Bhat (a rice and curried vegetable dish that manages to be unbelievable bland!) On day 6 the scenery changed dramatically as we climbed above the tree line and out onto the mountain desert. The wind howled about us making standing up difficult even without my pack and when we were least expecting it we were pebbledashed with stones from the dry river bed we trekked along. Giles was now starting to suffer from the altitude and as we reached 2,500m he became lethargic and coughed up blood. After a good night’s rest he was convinced he’d be OK so we walked on. The last part of our route involved a climb of over 1,000m in just 3 hours and at this point Giles had had enough. We found ourselves a place to stay for the night and took some well-needed rest. Although I seemed to be escaping the effects of altitude, effort of any kind at this height was difficult. Next day we awoke at our normal hour of 5.30am to find crystal clear blue skies. The mountains shone as the first light hit them and we both happily spun off roll after roll of film in the hope of being able to capture some of the beauty. One thing photos will never be able to do is give the feeling of being stood at that height watching the world wake before you. Giles now needed to get down a couple of hundred metres to try and clear his head and as we walked it became obvious he would not be able to handle the Sanctuary trek with altitudes of over 4,000m. I was somewhat disappointed at not being able to get up to the Annapurna Base Camp but I’d been lucky so far and if we flew down from Jomsom rather than walking back I realised I’d have time to go white water rafting before I left Nepal. The flights were booked and at 6.30am we descended upon Jomson airport to catch one of the tiny planes back down to Pokhara. As the wind, which hit us on our way up, tends to build during the day there are only 4 flights out of the mountains each morning and these are very much dependant on the weather conditions, but this was another perfect morning so we had no worries as we watched the aircraft come in to land. First priority each morning goes to the rescue helicopters that come up to airlift those with AMS (Acute Mountain Sickness) or other injuries. We boarded as these took off down the mountain and watched them climb over the nearest peak as we taxied down the unsealed runway. I didn’t know whether to be terrified or excited as we banked sharply and another snow covered crag loomed what seemed like metres from the window, but after a serious of stomach churning manoeuvres we were clear of the highest peaks and climbing fast. The flight to Pokhara takes only 15 minutes so both Giles and I began to wonder what was happening when 50 minutes into the flight we were still thousands of feet above the earth. Being only a 12-seater plane we could both see out of the cockpit window and started to grow more and more confused when we saw a large well lit runway spread out before us with huge aircraft at a terminal on the ground below. This wasn’t Pokhara! When the engines stopped and the noise fell away to just the ringing in our ears the pilot turned around and in Nepali embarked on a long explanation of which the only words the could understand were “diesel” and “China”. This was all very strange. Were we in China??? The 6 or so Nepalese people on the plane where obviously un-nerved so to pacify them the co-pilot them produced a piece of paper on which he drew some mountains, some clouds and a little aeroplane above the clouds. At this point I was on the floor in fits of laughter. Giles was doing Rolf Harris style “Do you know where we are yet?” impressions as the co-pilot continued to add detail to his sketch (birds and a smiley sun), and the Nepalese stared at me thinking I was a crazed woman! Surely we couldn't be in China...Eventually another man got on the cramped craft and explained in broken English that as the weather had suddenly closed in at Pokhara and the aircraft had no tracking or radar equipment other than the pilots eyes we’d had to fly on to Kathmandu as we were dangerously low on fuel. We were both somewhat relieved to learn “China” or a similar sounding word is Nepali for empty, so we could relax and forget about having to get ourselves out of an incredibly unwelcoming country. However, I was more than a little annoyed as I’d left a bag of kit in Pokhara, which I wanted to collect before I took the 7-hour bus journey back to Kathmandu. Now I was going to have to wait until we could fly back to Pokhara then turn round and get the bus straight back! Luckily wait didn’t take too long and by 11am we’d touched down safely at our intended destination. Hot showers and plenty of them were top of our priority list and after a good scrub and some clean clothes we were able to sit back and relax in comfort for the first time in 9 days. The 7-hour bus trip back to Kathmandu wasn’t as much fun as the flight but passed quick enough and I’m now preparing myself mentally for the next part of my Nepali adventure, rafting! As I didn’t get to climb to the Base Camp I’m treating myself to a couple of days on some of the best white water the world has to offer. Just 15Km from the Tibetan border the Bhote Kosi is the steepest river in Nepal and is normally graded between a III and a V (VI being dangerously impossible). However when I checked in with the rafting company a couple of hours ago the early monsoon rains had pushed the rating up to V in places so its going to be a very wet and wild time! Now I must push off and by one of those waterproof cameras. Something tells me there are going to be some definite photo opportunities over the next 48 hours!

Asian Journal - Chapter 6 - Messin' about on the river (March - April 2000)
Set deep in the Himalayan hills, just 6Km from the Tibetan border the Borderlands reserve is a wonderfully remote area totally unspoiled and with the feeling of being very much removed from time. Along with the rest of my group we spent most of the morning rehearsing paddling techniques, learning how to read the river and what seemed like far too long on what to do if you fall out of the boat, and various ways of getting back in. I'm all for safety, especially when playing with large volumes of water hurtling down narrow gorges but the lengths to which our safety training went began to scare me, very very much. Was I really ready to partake in something that required this much depth of water rescue knowledge??? Over lunch I was somewhat relieved to find I wasn't the only one feeling slightly nervous, but before we had time to scare each other too much lunch was cleared and we were suited up for our first set of rapids. Our river guide (a former bodybuilding Mr Nepal!) launched us out into clear water and for the first 10 minutes we trundled leisurely downstream whilst he shouted "Left paddle! Back paddle!" and we all admired the view. Mr Nepal wasn't impressed. "This is a very serious river!" he screamed, "if you do not listen and obey me you will get hurt, seriously!" OK, he'd got our attention, from now on we'd paddle. All rapids are classed according to their difficulty, 3 being reasonably taxing, 5 being very difficult and grade 6 being applied to those that were technically impossible. All the rapids we'd be tackling on ourfirst day were 3's and 4's and we were now fast approaching our first white water, appropriately named 'Frog in a blender'. Imagine being stuck in a bouncy castle, wedged inside a washing machine that's chock full of rocks and set on fast spin cycle. Everything happens very very fast and its easy to forget to listen to Mr Nepal because your concentrating on that large bolder that's hurtling towards you. Then suddenly you plunge 5 feet over the edge of the rapid and you pop up in a pool of calm still water, wring out your soaking t-shirt and wondering just what the hell happened back there. We'd survived our first class 3! Fear took a back seat and the adrenaline came out to play. . . With the sun on the water and feeling very much more confident in ourselves we eagerly paddled down stream to our next challenge, a class 4 rapid named 'Ex Lax'! Once we'd watched the safety kayaker go down through we realised why. Still riding on the adrenaline rush of earlier in we went, and 45 seconds later out we popped, battered, bruised and grinning like Cheshire cats. We turned our raft around so as to watch the second team come through, and so they did, one by one without their raft! I'd been waiting with my waterproof camera hoping to get some action shots but now we had to work quickly and pluck these poor people out of the drink. Our hours of training paid off, we'd been suitable drilled and using arms, legs, and any other body part we could gasp we unceremoniously hauled them aboard. More than their confidence was shaken, and suddenly we weren't feeling so gung-ho either. The rest of the day was less dramatic but still incredibly exhilarating and we retired to the campsite that evening exhausted but happy and swapping differing accounts of the same day. Bright and early next morning we paddled out again, the river swollen further from by the rain during the night and snowmelt from further up. A couple of class3's and a 4 in before lunch and we were doing well. Mr Nepal congratulated us in the way we worked as a team but informed us that we were not yet up to tackling what was round the next bend, a class 5. We put the raft ashore and clambered over the rocks towards the awful din that was coming from downstream. 'Hydraulic holes' appear when large volumes of water drop over a ledge directly towards rocks and anything that falls into these black holes gets sucked deep down, and stays down. We unloaded the raft of everything that wasn't necessary and watched in awe as our guide brought the raft over the rapid and to the side of the hole single-handed. This man definitely knew what he was doing. Having seen Mr Nepal in action I'm now better able to understand what happened next. We'd reloaded the raft and changed our seating so as to better spread the weight to get us over the next set of rapids. I was now perched at the very front of the raft, far away from the safety zone where I'd nestled for the first part of the trip but this didn't concern me too much, how much different could it possibly be? "Don’t look at the rock. Don’t look at the rock" I remember saying to myself, repeating the mountain biking logic that if you don’t look at the obstacle you wont hit it, as we hurtled towards the bolder. SMACK, we hit it broadside. The force reverberated through our bouncy-castle-raft and I was quite literally shot out of the boat, hit the rick then fell into the river. I remember having time to think 'wheres the raft gone???' then before my safety training had time to kick in I was back in the boat, dazed and confused. Henning, who was sat opposite me at the front of the raft, informs me it all happened so fast that I was still paddling and smiling as I flew through the air and bounced off the rock. And within seconds of going overboard Mr Nepal had bent down and with one arm quite literally plucked me from the water. He said he didn't even have time to scream "man over board!". I'm pretty sure that if we didn't have such an experienced guide I would have come back with more than just a blue bum and a few cuts and bruises. To the river I now owed much respect, and to him I am eternally grateful. Not wanting to subject my bruising to the 48hrbus/train/bus journey overland to India I grabbed my trusty credit card and booked a flight - well a girls got to have some luxury!!! Stepping gingerly on to the tarmac at Delhi's International airport, I was ready to embark on the last leg of my travels. Hopefully things would a little more relaxed from here on in.