15 July, Color-Man, Annapurna Base Camp
Chapter 53 of Moby Dick talks about stranger whaling ships meeting in the middle of the barren ocean. The two ships "cannot well avoid a mutual salutation," Herman Melville writes. "How natural that they should not only interchange hails, but come into still closer more friendly and sociable contact." This was especially true for sociable whalers, "For not only would they meet with all the sympathies of a sailor, but likewise with all the peculiar congenialites arising from a common pursuit, and mutually shared privations and perils."
And so it is with the world traveler! How could the European or North American, my kinsmen according to the flesh, not stop and greet us on the streets of Kathmandu or in a remote Indian village. These are the uttermost parts of the earth. Difference of country should not make much difference, so long as the two speak the same language. Yet, time after time, eager, I am turned away by reserved suspecting looks.
Tourists are everywhere, even in the Himalayas. But for me, backpackers draw the most attention. The first thing I notice is their gear. I look at bags, most of which are twice as big as mine with fancy cords and straps and cushions and sleeping bags. In Italy, I remember marveling at one boy from Finland with his solid pack and his ablutions bag. I look at the backpackers' shoes and socks and sunglasses and wristwatches. The ferry to Greece was full of young backpackers. I saw their dry, folded bath towels and blankets and big plates of food. Most of them seemed to have more spending money than us.
Now we are among trekkers, the backpackers of the Himalayas. We are snuggled in a cozy lodge beneath the Annapurna Range. This is Annapurna base camp, 4130 meters above sea level, much touted, much prized. A Canadian, a woman from France and a man from England showed up at about five o'clock and Drew turned to me, "They probably have loads of money. They'll get a heater...buckets of hot water for 50 rupees...and treats." Sure enough, they got those things and pulled on their dry wool socks.
Sam
And so it is with the world traveler! How could the European or North American, my kinsmen according to the flesh, not stop and greet us on the streets of Kathmandu or in a remote Indian village. These are the uttermost parts of the earth. Difference of country should not make much difference, so long as the two speak the same language. Yet, time after time, eager, I am turned away by reserved suspecting looks.
Tourists are everywhere, even in the Himalayas. But for me, backpackers draw the most attention. The first thing I notice is their gear. I look at bags, most of which are twice as big as mine with fancy cords and straps and cushions and sleeping bags. In Italy, I remember marveling at one boy from Finland with his solid pack and his ablutions bag. I look at the backpackers' shoes and socks and sunglasses and wristwatches. The ferry to Greece was full of young backpackers. I saw their dry, folded bath towels and blankets and big plates of food. Most of them seemed to have more spending money than us.
Now we are among trekkers, the backpackers of the Himalayas. We are snuggled in a cozy lodge beneath the Annapurna Range. This is Annapurna base camp, 4130 meters above sea level, much touted, much prized. A Canadian, a woman from France and a man from England showed up at about five o'clock and Drew turned to me, "They probably have loads of money. They'll get a heater...buckets of hot water for 50 rupees...and treats." Sure enough, they got those things and pulled on their dry wool socks.
Sam
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