Mt. Fuji Part Four: What Climbs Up has to Climb Down...Ouch!

“If you never climb Mt. Fuji you are a fool, and if you climb it more than once you are a fool.” Japanese proverb, author unknown

     Having reached the summit, we hiked for about an hour around the circumference of the volcanic crater.  The sky was so bright that my head was beginning to hurt from the glare.  I was squinting hard to see through my thick dark sunglasses.  It was at this point that the reality of our poor planning began to set in.  Having been more or less awake for well over 24 hours, it was now time to climb down the mountain.

      Our guide book estimated the descent to take about 2 hours.  However, we slid through gravel for seven. After about an hour of walking and sliding down the path, I felt like my knees were going to explode out of their sockets.  Covered in sweat and volcanic ash, I was beginning to suffer, my asthma being triggered from the large clouds of dust created by other climbers around us.  The weight of each of my footsteps was accompanied by the pain of a large jarring thud in the back of my head.  I was dehydrated, though I was drinking water every 15 minutes. 

“This is never going to end ever is it!”Rebecca cried with a helpless voice. Then Jairaj suddenly limped heavily onto his left side. 

“AWW…my ankle!” he screamed. 

Bernard and I helped him ease his way down what seemed live a never ending slide of gravel.  He soon as well twisted his right ankle.  Bernard and I grabbed him underneath each armpit and tried to brace his sliding. I then slid and fell on my back, knocking Jairaj over with me.  The lump that had been building in my throat finally released as I began to sob uncontrollably, bursting into wild tears. 

     “This sucks, this sucks….THIS SUCKS!!!” Jairaj yelled out to no one in particular.  Within our small group brewed a collective anger, though there wasn’t anyone or any place for it to be directed towards.

      Eventually all of us did make it back to Niigata Prefecture, but not before several budding friendships were forever severed.  It would be at least two years before anyone would even mention the climbing experience as the words “Mount Fuji” became like an expletive that no one amongst us would utter.  Two years after returning to San Francisco, I received a card from Jairaj in the mail.  The card was blank, but inside was a photograph that to this day hangs on my refrigerator.  The photo is that of a giant red Torii, surrounded by clouds with the sun emerging through its gates.  Hand written in pen on the back: 

 “I think this was worth it…”

Mt. Fuji Part Three: Station Seven, and it’s on Repeat

“If you never climb Mt. Fuji you are a fool, and if you climb it more than once you are a fool.” Japanese proverb, author unknown

      “We’re at Station Seven, so it should only be about 3 more hours,” Jairaj said. 

     “Maybe we should rest here, since we want to get to the top for the sunrise.  Otherwise, we may be waiting a long time in the dark at the summit,” suggested Sarah.  Bernard, who had a small stopwatch in his backpack, set an alarm to wake us all in an hour.  Huddled together on a wooden bench, the 5 of us got an hour’s rest.

     Once awakened by the alarm, we continued our route to Hachigome, or Station 8.  The air became much cooler as we ascended around the winding trail, so I put my fleece jacket on over my sweater.  Thus far, I had used my flashlight to guide my footsteps, but I was beginning to find that it was giving me tunnel vision.  I decided to proceed without it, using the light of the moon and stars instead to guide my path. 



      “There’s Station 8 up ahead,” I said after an hour, spotting what looked like lights.  When we arrived the sign read ‘Nanagome, Station 7’.  “Another Station 7…” I thought, beginning to feel a bit defeated and confused.  We looked at each other, dumbfounded.

     “I know it doesn’t seem real, but I guess there are two Station Sevens?” I shrugged.

Ahhhh....Station 7!!!

     Our path became steeper and rockier.  The air became colder.  The wind became stronger.  Over the course of the next 3 hours, walking up the pathway became more like rock climbing.  We were now ‘hiking’ on all four limbs.  We passed three ‘Station Sevens’. I began to wonder if Rod Sterling was going to appear on the mountain to let us know we had entered the twilight zone of the never ending Station Seven.  “Climb as high and fast as you can and you’ll again be at Station Seven,” I thought.  I noticed that my heart was beating about twice as fast as usual.

     “How much longer do you think we have?” Rebecca asked.  Finally the sign at the next station read ‘Station Eight’.

      As we neared the peak, we passed underneath the first of several Torii, the large red Shinto gates that mark a sacred place.  Across the darkened sky in the far distance I could see rays of lightening.  I was literally clinging to the gravel and shrubbery with one hand and pulling my weight with the other hand using my walking stick. “Dawn is about to break!” I overheard a man next to me say.  I sat down and braced myself, wedging the traction of my boot in to the side of a large boulder, which became somewhat of a shelter against the windy assault.  My eyes were watering from lack of sleep and every time I looked up, the wind would blow, whistling watery tears of sleep deprivation across my cheeks.  Together we all huddled against the cold, 12,990 feet above sea level.  Surrounded by hundreds of climbers from all over Japan and from various corners of the world, we had made it just shy of the summit by the strength of will.

     Suddenly, the sky began to slowly fill with light.  Time seemed frozen as across the sky appeared the tiniest dot of yellow-orange.  The tiny dot tediously extended itself into a single line of gold that spread across the horizon.  Enveloped in silence, the hair on both of my arms stood to attention as from head to toe my skin filled with what felt like faint electrical currents.  The silence broke when everyone around us simultaneously erupted into cheers, clapping ecstatically for the natural phenomenon of the rising sun.  One by one from the golden line, the sun’s rays materialized, stretching themselves through the thin blanket of clouds that hovered over the surrounding peaks.  The entire horizon vibrated with radiant celestial waves as the fiery orb of luminescence gradually emerged, filing the atmosphere with its light.

Mt. Fuji Part Two: And Half the Group will soon Defect….

 

“If you never climb Mt. Fuji you are a fool, and if you climb it more than once you are a fool.” Japanese proverb, author unknown
    
     We headed off on the trail, each with a backpack full of necessary items.  Jairaj and I took the lead, with my flashlight illuminating our path.  The air around us was steeped in excitement and saturated with the light ringing of anti bear bells and the crunching of hard black gravel beneath our shoes.

     “My feet hurt,” Danielle began to complain as she bent over, holding her knees with her doughy hands.  I noticed that she had worn a pair of buckled Mary Jane style shoes. I as well had worn black boots with thick laces and metal loops that were probably fit for walking a runway more so than for climbing.  We were soon passed by children climbing with their parents and elderly men and women with large knap sacks made of cloth on their backs.  Within our immediate path, we encountered three festive young men climbing with large backpacks adorned with Swedish flags and disassembled bicycle parts.  Apparently they were planning to climb up and bicycle down the mountain.  Jairaj, Sarah and I flashed them a ‘thumbs up’ and joined in right behind them, hiking faster and separating a bit from our group. 

     Mount Fuji, so beautiful from afar with it’s majestic peak, often the subject of artists and writers, has provided lifetimes of inspiration.  Up close and personal, the mountain was quite unattractive; a hike on a slightly inclined path of blackened gravel lined by low lying shrubs.

      We passed by the 6th station and didn’t stop to rest until we reached Nanagome, or Station 7. Here the three of us waited for the rest of the group.  At this station were small cabins and vendors selling snacks.  We got our walking sticks branded with ‘Nanagome’ and then posed for quick photographs.  I poured some green tea from my thermos, drank it down and tried to catch my breath.


Taking a rest at Station 7

 “How are you guys feeling?” I asked in a raspy voice once everyone arrived.  Holding her head, Danielle looked exhausted. 

“It might help if you guys slow down,” she said, the corners of her mouth folded tightly upwards.

 “I may need to climb back down’, Tiffany added.  “It says here that the path around the other side leads down,” she said pointing to her guide book.
 
“You can’t be serious….we’ve come this far!” Jairaj exclaimed. 

“You guys want to climb down….now?” I asked, somewhat surprised since we had only been climbing for about two and a half hours. 

“Well, it’s not like we’re climbing together anyway.  You guys are so far ahead most of the time,” Danielle griped. 

“We can all slow down, or those of us climbing faster can wait at each station for the rest of the group,” I pleaded. 

“This is a REAL nice trip you planned Jairaj,” Danielle said rolling her eyes, her words seething with hostility. 

“Well, maybe some people should get a physical done before trying to climb a mountain,” Jairaj said in defense. 

“Well, you know I have asthma,” Danielle replied as she sharply turned around. I sat on the bench, my walking stick resting beside my leg.  I had tightly wrapped the ribbon that attached the bells to my stick around my index and second fingers until they were numb. 

“I’ve had asthma for 21 years and….well I’m going to keep on going,” I said with resolve though in reality I was lightheaded and out of breath.  I turned and walked away with my heart sinking to my stomach as half of our group, including Tiffany, defected to climb back down to the Fifth Station.

Mt. Fuji Part One: It All Started at Gogome or Station Five

“If you never climb Mt. Fuji you are a fool, and if you climb it more than once you are a fool.” Japanese proverb, author unknown

“I’m only going on this trip because you are,” Tiffany said as we rode on the bus from Fujinomiya in the summer evening.  “It’s 8:00pm and we’re setting out to climb a mountain, not just any mountain, but the highest mountain in Japan,” she reminded me, her eyes growing larger.  This, it’s pretty crazy….I mean you realize we’re all crazy, right?  I was talking to my grandmother the other day and she said that black people don’t climb mountains!” 

“Well, I guess black people don’t climb mountains….except for when we do!” I responded with a wink.

We both heartily laughed as she and I represented two of the three African American women on our programme that year living in Niigata prefecture in northern Japan.  With a hint of anxiety, I looked out the window at the night sky and admired the glitter of the twinkling urban lights below as the bus climbed higher and higher into the night.

Mount Fuji is considered a very sacred place and for many it is a pilgrimage to climb the mountain.  It was late summer, one of the last weekends of the climbing season, when 10 of us set out together to make this trek.  We were all participants on the Japan Exchange and Teaching (JET) Programme and represented a broad spectrum of native English speakers from across the United States, the United Kingdom, Canada and Australia.  My colleague Jairaj had set up this excursion to be a bonding experience, for we had all been in Japan for merely a month.  Having spent my first month ever living alone and in a foreign culture, I was eager to get to know some of the other teachers on the programme.  Our collective goal was to watch the sunrise from the top of the mountain.

            It was 9:00pm when our bus dropped us off at Gogome station, the Fifth Station half way up the mountain.  Several groups of climbers were assembled at this base, as it’s one of the more popular starting points.  There were small shops selling everything from steaming bowls of noodles to walking sticks.  I purchased a walking stick, a traditional souvenir onto which you can get stamps branded on at each station to commemorate your achievement.  The walking stick that I chose had a Japanese and U.S. flag on the top and it was adorned with anti-bear bells, though I had never heard of any bear sightings on the mountain.  I figured that this experience would be a moderate hike to the summit.  After all Jimmy Carter had himself climbed the mountain just two weeks prior to our trip.  Based on our guidebook, we estimated that it would take 6 hours to reach the summit from where we were.

Sooo....Do Friends let Friends Climb Mount Fuji?

“If you never climb Mt. Fuji you are a fool, and if you climb it more than once you are a fool.” Japanese proverb, author unknown

A dear friend of mine from a Japanese class recently told me that she and her father were planning to climb Mount Fuji in the coming summer.  She was completely excited about the pending adventure and I just smiled, not knowing quite how to respond.  My experience climbing the mountain was more than a tad bit traumatic, something that I did many years ago, something I've effectively managed to block out of my memory.  I promised her that I would try to recall the experience and that I would post about it on my blog.  Soon to come will be some recollections of the event and unfortunately, the names will not be changed to protect the innocent.

Late Summer Palate Memories

My One Picture of Big Ben

During a recent voyage across the pond, I did manage to get a few pictures of Big Ben, Tower Bridge and the London Eye.  However, the majority of the pictures that I took in London reflect the food that was eaten. Rather than posing for photos of myself with friends in front of the city’s many landmarks, I have pictures of burgers done medium rare, the desserts from a Sunday early afternoon dinner party, a table of Spanish tapas and the accompanying ruby toned glasses of wine. Embedded in these photos are memories of the palate; the landscape of textures, colours and scents; the simple moments of daily life.  As a dear friend mentioned, every snack has a story and a context.

It shouldn't come as much of a surprise that I spent an afternoon volunteering at a food bank in Brixton, weighing, unpacking and stocking donated goods at a pantry at St. Paul’s Church.  One of my only regrets is that I didn't capture more photos of this afternoon in my camera roll. In scrolling through my iPhone, I came across several pictures of a traditional English breakfast that I enjoyed at Duck Egg Café on Coldharbour Lane. How delightful were the plates of beans and meaty lusciousness with side glasses of pomegranate juice, each boasting thick hues of deep burgundy. I even encountered photos of plates containing crumbs.  In examining the image of these crumbs, my tongue immediately retains the flavour of a breakfast of warm buttery croissants and copper coloured milk tea with interwoven hints of honey.  My mind then recalls the moist bits and pieces of conversations, gazing out the window into a late summer sky, watching passengers at a stop across the street waiting to board the 137 Clapham bus.   

English Breakfast at Duck Egg Cafe

During what was close to two weeks in London, I had the chance to see many old friends, one in particular who frequently visits me in SanFrancisco.  I was able as well to see many friends that I’ve met under intense circumstances over the past year and a half.  Some of these friends I came to know while volunteering in a disaster zone in northern Japan and others I met living in an ashram in southern India as part of a yoga teacher training programme.  There was a reciprocal and almost immediate need for us to nourish one another, to feed our relationships,to delight in both the savory and the sweet. Each morsel reflected the bliss of travel and the associated bonds with a kindred spirit.

Impermanence, it’s the only thing in life that seems to persist.  Sometimes the only constant may be the divine flavour of a well prepared chocolate éclair.

Rob's Desserts

Time Between Projects

It was the end of World Cup 2010 when I left Cape Town on the day before Nelson Mandela’s 92^nd birthday. I was quite inspired by his birthday wish for everyone to give 67 minutes of service to represent the 67 years that he fought poverty and racism.  Taking one small step at a time, I decided to do whatever I could, however small, to promote acts of kindness and to provide service to humanity.  Many of my blog entries from the past year reflect those small steps.  In order to sustain myself, I’ve now been working towards securing project based work in the finance industry. (read: time between projects)

It’s common knowledge that the US workplace boasts the shortest amount of time off per year in the industrial world. This fact is hard for me to digest and certainly led to my decision to pursue freelancing.  I’m beginning my first contract, which I was fortunate to obtain in this economy, in a few weeks.  This gives me just enough time to make one more venture before putting my nose to the grind stone for several months...until I head to my next destination. 

While in San Francisco, I’ll continue assisting with and fundraising for disaster relief.  I will also continue volunteering with immigrants and refugees through Upwardly Global. Traveling,exploring and providing selfless service; these things have become as essential as water to me.  Like water, it’s rare that I’m even able to stand still.  Like water, hope is quite a fluid and transformative entity, possessing tremendous impact.  My commitment of 67 minutes became a full time job for me for 19 months.  I’m looking forward to the future volunteer work that I'll partake in and the additional nomadic adventures that my time between projects will offer.  At the same time, I'll be certain to enjoy the doses of freelance project based work during those necessary ‘layovers.’

An Unpredictable Thrill

In stumbling upon a local carnival in Puducherry, I think I may have encountered the fastest ferris wheel I’ve ever ridden.  Every time our car reached the top, it would lurch backwards and then forcefully jerk forwards before rapidly descending towards the ground below.  Everyone (yes, myself included) was laughing and screaming with both amusement and terror. 

I’m glad I survived to share a picture of this one….

A Blessing

The air was blistering with heat as we slowly meandered through the streets of Pondicherry, a Union Territory formed out of four enclaves of former French India.  We had arrived in the city the evening before and from what I read in a hotel brochure, I knew that I wanted to pay a visit to the Manakula Vinayagar Temple.  Having been in India for 2 ½ months, I knew my path to be graced with serendipitous moments of unexplainable radiance whenever I surrendered completely to my environment.  Needless to say, I was quite content to stroll through the streets with no real direction or intent.

We worked our way down Jawaharlal Nehru Street, a street that flourished with activity.  The wide avenues teemed with motorbikes, rickshaws, taxis and bicycles, all seamlessly in movement together in a precise yet precarious flow.  Along the sidewalks were bakeries, shoe shops, wine stores, banking institutions and textile shops showcasing fine fabrics of silk and decorative sequins.  From every direction, the city seemed to be bursting with life in vibrant colors. For respite from the heat, we frequently ducked into bookshops, multi leveled department stores and one of my favorite shops which was filled with long glass encasements containing rows of decorative candies and sweet cakes. 

 Suddenly the sound of bells, drums and chanting clearly emerged amidst the cacophony of early evening traffic.  I couldn’t help but turn left down a narrow road to bring my senses closer the pleasing sounds and the smooth sweet fragrance of incense. One side of the alleyway was lined with large stalls and vendors selling flowers, books, trinkets and baskets filled with coconuts, long grass and incense.  On the other side of the alleyway was a large light blue temple complex with throngs of people milling in and out of the entrances.  The structure was adorned with colorful carved images of Hindu deities that lined the entrance and the roof, which was layered in tiers rising to a narrow tip that pointed to the sky.  The structure and its carvings were much more than my eyes could retain in one glance.  Standing to the right of the temple door was an enormous elephant with a regal and protective presence.  I watched her with admiration as she interacted with the devotees entering and exiting the temple.  After a bit of hesitation, the gentlemen at the shoe check convinced us that we should enter.  For 10 rupees, I left my shoes to be checked and then purchased a basket of offerings; candles, coconuts, long leaves of grass and a garland of flowers.  We entered the temple, and stood in line while the priests took the individual baskets of offerings to the enshrined deity. 

I had found myself inside Manakula Vinayagar Temple, a temple that the Jesuits and Missionaries had attempted to demolish on several occasions throughout history. This was a sacred place that the local population managed to salvage every time. The structure was cavernous on the inside with various forms of Ganapathi embedded into the walls. The inside of the temple possessed its own ebb and flow of activity, buzzing in similarity to the city outside.  When it was my turn to present my basket of offerings, the priest asked me my name and took the basket forward.  He soon returned the basket to me with the coconuts and grass remaining.  Being unsure of what was supposed to happen with the remaining ingredients in my basket, we wandered around the spacious interior until one of my friends asked a passerby for direction.  “You can take the remaining offerings to Lakshmi, the elephant at the entrance,” he replied.  The beating of my heart hastened.

We stepped outside, where Lakshmi stood in front of the entrance.  Her trunk was swaying. She was beautiful and unconfined with paint adorning her forehead.  She looked directly into my eyes, watching my every move.  I pulled the long leaves of grass from my basket. She then unfurled her long trunk to where I was standing and took the offerings from my hands to her mouth.  She slowly brought her trunk back again to where I stood and patted me gently on the head.  A passerby near the entrance confirmed “That is your blessing. She is blessing you….”

Living with the Monkeys in my Guest House

Hampi Sunrise

I had arrived in the town of Hampi, a village in the northern state of Karnataka, after a sleepless night on an overnight bus from Goa.  It was almost 6am and the scorching heat seemed to be slowly rising from the surrounding rocky terrain.  The village itself is located within the Vijayanagara ruins amidst a dusty landscape of bedrock that is simply surreal.  I sought refuge from the sweltering sun of the early morning in a guest house that was within walking distance from the Virupaksha Temple tower.  Inhabiting a small room with a large ceiling fan, I fell into a dreamless slumber that lasted for several hours until I was suddenly awakened by rustling noises outside my door.  I opened my door to encounter a roving band of monkeys running amok across the 2^nd floor landing of the guest house.  They seemed to be on a focused mission to tamper with everything in sight and to wreak general havoc.  Two more jumped over the balcony as I reached for my camera.  One sort of glared at me, showing me his teeth.  Within days we all grew accustomed to each other as their ritual of havoc was something that occurred on a daily basis, sometimes several times a day. 

...One Jumping over the Table

...Turing on the Tap Outside my Door

...Hiding under the Patio Furniture

Mmmm....Water

108 Sun Salutations

The Sun Rising near the Sahyadri Foothills

I’m still not sure how I managed to do 108 Sun Salutations.  I think I lost count at number 33. While steadily maintaining 5 hours of sleep and regularly consuming soft rice and okra green sauce with side mountains of carrots and cashews, I was dizzy.  I went through the motions, inside wondering if I were feeling the effects of malnourishment or sleep deprivation (or both) and wondering as well if I had been completely indoctrinated into a new sort of belief system.  My head swirled with images of myself at immigration where I inadvertently and accidentally selected ‘religious pilgrimage’ as well as ‘tourism’ for the reason for my visit to south India.  By the time we reached the 33^rd salutation, the pace had quickened and the instructor’s voice now possessed a certain military rhythm.

“Inhale, exhale ONE, Inhale TWO, Exhale THREE…..”

I was seething with an intense anger as I tried to persevere through my physical pain and fatigue. My grandmother used to always say that repression breeds resistance in some individuals.  By the end of my first week of yoga teacher training in an ashram environment, I was resisting the world.

There were about 200 yogis in training enrolled in the month long program which took place at an ashram in the southern Indian state of Kerala.  It seemed as though everyone was pushed beyond their physical, emotional and mental limits on a daily basis.  The rigidity of our schedule even left me longing for the comparative ease of my stock market job, where for sometimes 10-12 hours a day I would sit drenched in stress in front of a computer with two monitors in an ergonomically correct chair.  By the end of the first week, some potential yogis had already exited the program. 

A Local Store along our Walking Route

Our days typically began with a wake up bell at 5:20am and a Satsang and meditation session at 6:00am.  Twice a week, our Satsang session would involve silent meditation walks.  I looked forward to these walks for two reasons.  One: I could barely sit cross legged on the floor for more than two minutes because my muscles were so sore. Two: After sizing up the landscape, I (along with a small group of like minded yogis) realized that we could silently sneak off from the group and buy things from vendors along the route. Soon after the sun welcomed the new day, we would silently and happily return to our lives within the ashram walls with our yoga mat bags filled with packages of Horlicks biscuits and chocolate and cashew cookies.

Sometimes during these silent meditation walks, we would meet at a lake where the group would sit for several minutes in silence before chanting songs in Sanskrit.  Although the entire group would sit on the ledge facing the lake, I often found myself sitting in the opposite direction facing the sky, the road, and the rolling hills of the surrounding fields.  I convinced myself that my reverse seating wasn’t a reflection of resistance, but rather a need to face the stars.  I was easily mesmerized and amazed by the clear night sky, the silhouettes of swaying palms, and the constellation of lights that quietly shimmered from above.

Fridays were our day off from the training and I spent each and every free day with my small group of like minded yogis.  For us, every Friday took on the meaning of a new found freedom….and often held the potential to end in debauchery. While we usually maintained vegetarian diets on our free day, our stomachs were often filled with everything from chocolate banana pancakes to tropical coconut coffee shakes. We did however take the time on our free days to revise for our exam and to practice the Sanskrit chants that we learned in our classes. I will always hold fond the memory of floating in a long boat down the narrow stretches of river near Poovar, all of us softly singing “Krishna Govinda Govinda….”

The Closing Pooja

Our 2^nd to last asana class consisted of 2 hours of advanced pranayama techniques, or various breathing exercises.  I was lying on my back in Savasana at the end of the session when a warm pool of tears began to gently gather beneath my closed eyelids.  As I sat up, my normal breathing slowly transformed into a sob. Soon I was sobbing uncontrollably as I physically re-experienced the grief and my anger with God over losing the grandmother who raised me.  Unfolding between my sobs was the physical trauma of a child constantly hospitalized with severe respiratory complications.  As the tides of warm tears streamed down my face, I slowly felt myself begin to let go. From that moment, I knew that I would never be the same.  I realized that the physical and emotional discomfort of the training experience had really opened up the possibility for transformation in positive directions.  I came to understand that this trip was indeed very much a pilgrimage of a spiritual sort.  In my nomadic ventures, I’ve found blazing a new trail to be most efficient when I don’t have to check any bags, when everything I’m carrying fits comfortably in the seat in front of me. As I incorporate the lessons and techniques into my daily yoga practice in preparation to teach others, the load that I carry now continues to lighten.