Elephants upstream

We were walking to my bungalow on the eve of the conference when I first heard it. A sound like elephants, far in the distance, trumpeting, interacting, making their presence known. I knew from the hour-long van ride north of the Chiang Mai airport that this year’s conference was being held on the outer edge of civilization. The “jungle resort” setting along the river had stirred my wanderlust as we pulled in, and now this. “Are those elephants?” I asked my host, hopefully. He shrugged. “The locals say there is an elephant camp upstream. We heard them during our conference last year, in the mornings and evenings.” An elephant camp, nearby — how far? Can you get there from here? Is it a working camp, or a tourist site? How long would it take to hike there? Has anyone checked it out? My curiosity surged, but my questions met mostly with amused smiles and vague replies. Even the Thai staff had only hearsay to report—a dirt track roughly paralleling the river, several villages, lots of dogs, not really advisable for “farangs” (generally clueless foreigners like me, who should really stay within the walls of our manicured compound.) On the third morning I slipped out the back gate of the resort as the dawning light crept through the tree canopy.

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Holy mountain transcendence

My friend loved these people, and had spent a sizable portion of her life learning, transcribing, and preserving their vanishing Tibetan dialect. She was humbled by their willingness to take her in. They laughed with delight when she joined them eagerly for yak-butter tea.

I came to visit, to be with her in her remarkable world. We climbed the Buddhist holy mountain together: I, wide-eyed, gasping for air, full of questions …. She, solemnly amused as I struggled to take it all in: the profusion of prayer flags, resolute devotion, stunning beauty.

We met them, serendipitously, on the mountain top. They marveled that this golden-haired foreigner could speak their language, perplexed when she explained that I, on the other hand, “couldn’t speak.” We shared simple food and they joked and chattered, absorbed in conversation, oblivious to my astonishment at being welcomed into this hallowed space. In one transcendent moment, I understood.

[Visually share the journey up the holy mountain in the Doug’s Pics gallery.]

Granada I: seeing what is really there

I ambled through back streets and narrow lanes, first in the old Jewish quarter, then the tetris alleys of the Arab quarter. At first I was giddy, inhaling the heady brew of a millenium of history mixed with first-day-arrival freedom, and savoring the lengthening shadows over a racion of calamares en su tinta at an achingly local tapas bar. Remarkably, I had this first afternoon to myself, arriving in Granada in time to drop my bags off at the hotel and head into the old quarter well before the “sweet light”. The scheduled rendezvous with family and friends who had flown in the week before was hours away. Charlene, bless her, had carefully scheduled “open space” to help me shift gears after the trans-Atlantic flight, before we connected for the evening, She knew a few hours in an ancient European city with my camera, following the light, would revive me to the core - and no doubt make me a better husband! So, of course, I had been anticipating this for weeks. It was the right time of day on a timely trip to a city we had been wanting to visit for decades. I sensed the clock ticking as the first hour slipped away. I felt around inside, looking for the warm glow of elation, delight, deep satisfaction … and found instead rising frustration.

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Granada II: embracing what is

(continued from previous post) Ouch! I saw it, in a flash. I had come to southern Spain with a mental map, a tourist’s checklist of what was supposed to be there. I was on the hunt for the Granada I wanted to find, the “typical” alleys and doors and arches I had come to see. Instead, these garish flourishes hemmed me in on all sides. The further I got from the city’s main commercial artery, looking for the real Granada, the more I saw of these fascinating, wildly creative odes to post-modernity … expressions of the living soul of 21st century Granada. Sheepishly, I relented of my toxic insistence on what I had come for, and embraced, instead, what was there.

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Waveheart

It’s been a long time coming.  I’ve hunted waves with a camera for thirty years, only seeing glimpses “through a lens dimly” of what I knew was there … never quite able to capture the fleeting moment - the curling lip, the translucent glow, the other-worldly abstraction, the chaotic kaleidoscope churning so fast you can’t really see it.  Only sense it.

I’ve burned up a lot of film here and there on this quest, sacrificed it vainly on the altar, seeking an elusive transcendence.  The advent of digital imaging restoked the fire, encouraging my heart that a resumed quest might not again end in futility.  Mounting rapid-fire fps counts from successive generations of cameras finally provided a weapon worthy of the prey.

This time, it all converged: a supportive family pushing me to take the time, walk the beach, stalk the light; smooth, high-spirited L-glass yearning for a challenge; a restless ocean assaulting the beach, warning of an approaching storm.  Here, the frothing wave bared its heart for a fleeting moment.  I am grateful.  I’ll be back for another heart to heart before long.

[Track this expedition all the way to the Glisterine Coast, in the Doug’s Pics gallery.]