Just a week short of three months and I feel ready to return to the states for some holiday magic and the familiar friendships and family.

This has been my first time really researching and photographing something of substance overseas, and I’ve really loved making something more of my journey than simply traveling. While creating portraits at Udaipur’s Ganghor Gat these past few days, I realized that the only images I’ve been satisfied with were of the drivers I created some kind of relationship with. Now, those relationships varied, but never did I just pull a driver off the street and capture their personality right off.

I tried it, actually. Yesterday I found a Sikh driver, which I’ve not ran into yet in Udaipur, only Muslim and Hindu drivers. Interested, I spoke with him for a few minutes and asked to take a few photos. The results were less than stellar. Ack, far from stellar. It was exactly what I thought it to be – shallow, quick, insensitive. It could have been my attitude, the driver, our personalities, or a combination. Regardless, my best work has not been any technical feat alone.

There is no substitute for this invaluable combination: time and releasing ego. And when I mean releasing, I mean escaping the confinements of our own ego, and allowing a greater Ego to take charge.

It’s interesting that these two portraits grabbed my attention this morning, of Bhanwar (Bhamu) Singh and Hammit Lal Vashita (pictured above). I’ve known Bhanwar since researching with the Principia group in October. He was never my own research driver, but he drove our resident counselor, Chestnut Booth, all around the city helping her find ATM’s nearly every day. He was always around the group, and always asked me to take photos of him and the students he liked. It always annoyed me a bit, but I tried my best not to let it get to me, and knew that I’d probably like the same thing if I were in his position. He also really annoyed me and a group of friends one afternoon when he notoriously overcharged us for a ride to Tiger Lake (at least he nagged us enough about the price, we ended up paying him a reasonable fare). Our friendship has taken some time to simmer down and become comfortable, but I really like the guy now. It was joyful to see him on the streets when I returned to Udaipur.

I met Hammit only when I returned to Udaipur. Right outside of the Royal Palace Hotel, the guy screamed a sense of Udaipur-gansta. He’s incredibly outgoing, and came right up to me and started talking to me about driving around the city. I wasn’t interested, but he insisted I take his name down. Later in the evening he whizzed past me in the dark of the night; I heard my name from a speeding rickshaw that was passing me, and he turned around and told me to jump in, “No charge Ben, no problem, come on man!” I honestly didn’t recognize him, but when someone knows your name like that, it’s easy to go along with things. I jumped in and only a few minutes later recognized him as the guy I met earlier. Later in the week he got a new sound system installed into his stylish rickshaw (it’s even fitted with a white-tiger interior) and Guy Walker and I spent some time with him while he bumped some of his tunes. Jay-Z, Bob Marley, techno beats and the such. There was no pressure with this relationship, but we always happened to run into one another. He never pushed me to spend my money on him, which I’m sure helped our relationship. One of my favorite lines from him that about sums up his personality: “I’m not funny, but happy by nature.” He laughs at everything, and easily triggers a smile.

But had I only been okay with one type of personality, a type of person, a religion, this manner or that manner, I don’t think I’d have gotten anywhere with these drivers. Spend a little time with someone and eventually that initial ego just strips away. People are people after all, just like you.

It’s an experience, and I’m curious where my next one will bring me, what it’ll be all about…

Each night this guy named Kishna has been trying to sell his CD to me – sometimes for 250 rupees, then 350rs, then 400rs. The price always changes, and I always give him crap for it. We laugh it off each time.

As I was setting up my lights Kishna wondered what they were for. “Aight, come here bud, I’ll show ya.” He insisted that if I photographed him I ought to buy his CD for double the price. Each click of the camera resulted in another 100 rupees or so added to the price of his CD.

Anyway, meet Kishna. I photographed a few autowallah drivers tonight as well, but I gotta thanks Kishna for helping me setup the lighting.

That’s right – there are an incredible amount of Indian tourists that flock to Udaipur to get a filling of a unique part of Indian history:  the maharajas and maharanas, the princely princes and noble culture of their history before Partition, before the British.  It never really hit me until recently, but why wouldn’t India love to travel their own country?

And of course my eye is always distracted by bits of beauty like this woman walking down the stairs of a very skinny, wonderfully lit hallway.  I think the boyfriend caught onto the clicks of my camera and just before I grabbed a photo of her henna-designed wrist and hand grabbing the corner of a wall; he quietly swapped positions with her, effectively blocking her from my camera.  Or me.

Regardless, the research and photographs continue…

Ambiguous – a term everyone on the India abroad became very comfortable with. And what a great thing to be just fine with. I think we live in a very unclear, inexact world that is able to be interpreted in so many ways.  And that is the beauty of it. What we find ambiguous has got to be very clear to something much larger than our own minds.

But more than being ambiguous, this little week-long return to research is a lot of things for me. It’s the end of my 3 month journey into the Asian subcontinent. It’s my last bang in India before heading back to mounds-upon-mounds of midwest American snow: winter, that is. It’s the last taste of spices leaked into oils and salts and vegetable matter so well done. Above many things, it’s the chance to give purpose to all this work behind the camera.

When I first set off to India I knew it would be a photographic opportunity for many things, and one of the challenges I would give myself was to look deeper than the beautiful sunlight, the incredible fury of natural color, and an aesthetic of age unwoven with socialized standards (India’s grit seems to be a part of its charm – ask any artist). My project with the autowallah drivers has been a wonderful opportunity for me to find something further than the surface.

But above the ambiguity of putting all of these elements together and finding the fill to this project’s holes has been allowing things to happen. Allowing, letting. I always used to think jumping at every opportunity was the best way to get something. But jumping and getting have been slowly replaced by the terms allowing and letting. I think it’s important to ’seize the day!’ – and even the moment – but a lot of this trip has been about putting my trust in a higher source than my own will.

Today a lot was accomplished in filling up those holes in this project – but it all happened in a way that I couldn’t have done by just jumping at every opportunity I saw fit to photograph.

Technicalities – and I’m sorry for those who this isn’t clear to: A few photographic things I’m beginning to appreciate more: high f-stops, noon light, and light just after dusk. A lot of this trip I had been enjoying the blur of a very open aperture, and the crispness it offers a single depth of focus. But the clear crispness of layers with a very small aperture-opening and noon-light has been attractive. Also, where as dawn and dusk light is always pleasant to the eye – especially India’s golden touch – I’m finding myself attracted to the coldness of light right after dusk in combination with artificial street lighting. It’s interesting. You’re seeing a touch of that in the above picture of Baba (27-year-old auto-wallah driver; he’s waiting for customers right in the heart of Udaipur’s Old City.)

Anyway, lots to discover, and lots of happening this week. Thanks for being part of it…

Back in Kathmandu we find it all, unexpectedly. Our last supper in the country of Nepal consists of: pizza for appetizer and Indian food for main dish.  Desert:  gummies and Snickers back at the Kathmandu Guest House.  We miss the comforts of home, and India. In fact, most of the time we had discussions about how great Indian food is.

Guy Walker and I end up waking up early the day of our departure and going to one of now favorite Kathmandu locations: Chikusa Coffee. “Tired of Nescafe?” a sign says outside of the store – “REAL COFFEE.” Thank God. Northern India, I discover over these 3 months of traveling here, hasn’t quite discovered the joys of real bean coffee. Much like London (and a lot of the UK, which is wonderful when it comes to fresh teas), Northern India and Nepal has a fascination with instant coffee. Done right the stuff is great – but it’s like trying to get nose tissues right: there are SO many of them that lack the wonderfulness of comfort.

Nepal might be the exception. I discover that in the past ten years Nepal has started to grow its own crops of coffee beans: yes, coffee estates in the Himalayan hills. I first find out while scrounging for something warm to drink at a local food-store. The smell of fresh-roasted and well-packaged coffee beans sweating with caffeinated oils is hard to steer away from. Organic.  Shade-grown.  Co-op farming.  Heaven.  I’m sitting there on the bottom shelf of the market’s tea and coffee selection squeezing every bit of coffee-roast-sweetness from the one-way valve sealed bags. Mmm. Guy and I are in heaven.

I leave Nepal feeling like a coffee smuggler for my friends. Nearly 10 pounds of coffee and generic winter clothing is stuffed into a brand new (and generic) North Face XL-sized duffel bag. “Water proof” and extra durable. I’m sure. At only one of the many adventure outfitters on the streets of Kathmandu I actually saw a set of jackets and bags labeled with this patch: “The Hortn Face.” Yes, they swapped the ‘N’ and ‘H’ of North Face. At another shop we find Arc’teryx jackets labeled with North Face’s “Summit Series.” Um, no. Wrong. The shop owners wouldn’t even know either – all they’ve seen is knock-off brands their whole life. But the jackets and sleeping bags and duffels and pants all work in the mountains. Down and proper fabric will work wonders when put together, regardless of who manufactures them. At least for 15 days, that is.

The days of 150 rupee lattes and 70 rupee Snicker bars are over. India, bless me with your spicy food. Bathe me with 35 rupee plates of daal and lentils and potatoes and rices simmering in Indian spices. Toast some chapati, butter the roti. And most of all, ginger that black tea, pour masala onto my tongue and stuff me with a climate of peaceful and gritty rivers (of trash), fields of grass, deserts of dust and sand and golden things. Let me rest on your purring cars that glide down your smooth railway. And most of all: give me your golden dusking sunlight.

A Chicago winter can wait. At least for one more week. For now, India calls.

After dreams of meeting author Michael Crichton and turning into a pink goo that races around industrial cities being chased by something I didn’t want to get caught by, I quickly learn to adjust my thought and my thinking before sleeping. It works, and my dreams become my own adventures.

As if nesting around in the heights of the world wasn’t enough of an adventure.

From my notebook, December 3rd, 2009:

“Nepal, 4,400 meters and we’re drowning in heaven. The air disappears, this sea of air we thrive in. I discover – we are bottom eaters of this thick soup we call oxygen. Thinning, thinning at 4,400 meters we finally feel we are winning. But painfully, slowly; our senses are unstable. We numb and move as old men, stuck, joints of honey and maple cooled to a swampy sludge. Disoriented of up, down, of this earth that is everywhere around. It dizzies my perception.

Air thinning, our minds numb, and God’s wise smile creeks a bit more, his checks rise and his eye tight.

Our bodies frown from this mountainous might, but our minds are quick at work. The me slows. More aware of our arounds, we’re becoming less human at 4,400 meters.”

Subjects that constantly come up: food, home, Christmas, the greatness of Indian food (which we miss), toilet paper, gin-rummy (and lots of it), and one of my favs: who the f@*$ would climb Mt. Everest (we’ve not even reached half its height at 4,400 meters!)

And I’ve finished my first over-300-page-book in less than 18 hours.  Wow.

The passes are incredible, as if a hand more powerful than anything any human could dream of just pushed the land together like a child playing with sand.  But not sand, rather mountainous gobbets of living land speckled with trees and bushes hanging onto steep walls, gasping swathes of CO2 and gusting just enough oxygen out for those brave enough to breath in such an oddly auspicious place.

In an eerie way, God has already left His mark on this landscape for humankind to play around in.  And they play, ever do they play.  It amazes me that only about 60 years ago did the first Westerner step foot into this land.  Think:  at the same time mankind was racing to put a man on the moon.  Sir Edmund Hillary of New Zealand and the Nepalese sherpa, Tenzing Norgay first reached the summit of Mount Everest in May of 1953.

And the same airfield that Hillary created in Lukla to bring supplies for building sherpa schools in the area – the same airfield that brought us here – is one of his regrets, for it has brought incredible amounts of commercialization.

Were in the bustling mountain town of Namche Bazaar, and during dinner last night I ran into a team of architects from Montana working towards their masters programs.  One of them introduced themselves and started talking about a technical mountaineering school for local sherpas they were helping to design and build – and I right-off started asking a ton of questions about them and their project.  (be sure to check them outby clicking here)

1/3 of the deaths up here are sherpas, and primarily because they lack technical knowledge that their clients require for the climbing in the area.  It’s one example of how heavy commercialization has changed the lives of the local culture in the area.    So back in 2001 someone got the wise idea to create a school to properly train sherpas in the technical knowledge.  Eight years later and this team of scholars and builders are about to set the foundation up in a small town of 300:  welcome to Phortse, where the Khumbu school is going to breath its first dash of Everest air.

More on the group:  Getting used to the altitude has been a challenge.  Just two days ago I sat at about 2,800 meters feeling disoriented, tired, and unable to move on my feet.  I kept it down low, did a lot of prayerful work with the help of Guy, and we planned on making a move the next day.  Meanwhile Graham and Lyndsay struggled up the hardest and longest bit of trail to Namche Bazaar.  We later found out that their planned 4 hour trek took about 6 hours.

Guy got another night with the local kids, and watched Wall-E with one of them.  My diet for the entire day consisted of water, apple juice, 2 apples, and 2 oranges. My bowel movements are liquid.  My body is cleansing itself.  The next day I work up feeling much better, but not well enough to carry my bag, so I decide to hire a porter for the day.  It set me back 1,000 NRS, but was well worth it.

The porters are amazing: struggle isn’t a part of their vocabulary.  They carry triple the weight we do without any of the fancy baggage.  They travel thousands of meters up and down each day, they move faster than any trekker.  They are certainly of this land.  And today we’re introduced to our first look at Everest during a break of water and fresh oranges being sold by some locals on the trail.  Just before lunch Guy and I meet a great couple from Australia who are traveling bits of the world together.  After Nepal they plan on heading to Tanzania’s Mount Kilimanjaro, then are moving to London, England on a five-year work visa.  They remind me of how inspiring it is to meet other travelers on the road:  there really are other people with the same kind of dreams and aspirations

For now Namche  Bazaar is solitude for us. Hot showers, laundry, reasonably cheap Snickers bars and Yak steaks, and most importantly (I think) time to relax and reflect: everything we need for our final push to 5318m at Gokyo Peak.

I’ve been reading a blog from photographer Kevin German who I discovered through a photo agency introduced by Matt Eich. Incidentally his journey to the Everest base camp for his 30th birthday exactly followed the beginning of our route. But rather than going for the base camp we decided to check out the less commercialized Gokyo peak. Now, when I say less commercialized, I mostly mean your average American would know about Everest. Gokyo? I had never even heard of it.

Kevin ran into a plethora of challenges right off: a nose bleed, head aches, full guest-houses, sudden bouts of energy loss. Don’t get me wrong, 2 hours of backpacking with a lighter bag has been more difficult than 8 hours back on Montana’s Beartooth range (2007 with my great friend Chris Pelzarski).

Gratitude: take our second night out here. We were originally going to hike only 2 hours to Phakting for a nice restful afternoon after our first real hike. But just before arriving to Phakting we ran into a local who told us about his guest-house just past Bengkar. He told us it was just an hour past Phakting and he’d have a triple room for us at a great rate (100 NRS. This is equivalent to about $1.40. Our first night we spent 100 NRS. for each bed). Guy loves sleeping on solid ground, and we figured after a solid lunch we’d be good to go another hour.

We slowly (painfully) discover that a local porter’s idea of an hour is more like 2 hours for us. They don’t wear watches, they run up and down this trail for a living, and they have double our weight. And in this case they are loosing altitude; we’re gaining.

We finally arrive in Bengkar; the morning sun has been swallowed by afternoon clouds, it’s getting dark quickly, and the hour we expected has suddenly turned into two hours. Ack. The anticipation. The want. Bengkar is much smaller than Phakting, which was loaded with pastry shops and internet cafes (550 nrs./hour. For comparisons sake, we were spending 100 nrs./ hour in Nepal’s capital city, Kathmandu). We mosey through the town looking for the Everest Restaurant and Guest House, but without luck. The end of the town meets us and we’re tired, it’s getting dark, we’re about to get hungry.

But we run into a treat. The last guest house in town, nestled right off a humming river of crystal sky blue, is dark and cold. Out of Tashi Guest House comes a family with a little boy and girl trailing behind, running. Graham, Lyndsay and Guy fall in love with the little kids, and the price is right. Though I had ran around looking for other rates, and also found a warm little place for us all, we opted for the last house in town – Graham figured we were the only ones to give them business for the night, and who doesn’t like helping someone out?

45 minutes later we’re in a beautiful lodge-like room with the warm of a cast iron wood-burning stove and my computer glowing Disney/Pixar’s “Up.” It’s not in 3D, but this is multidimensional: we have a crowd. The kids cuddle into our down-coat and sleeping bag fest while we wait for dinner. Guy and I brew some Nepalese beans from the Himalayan foothills. It’s all good.

I wondered if bringing a computer was wise or not – but I had been inspired to do it, and who can say no to inspiration? I just said yes, and I’m glad I’ve brought it. Though I’ll most likely drop it off at a Guest House in the last village we’ll encounter bustling with pastry shops and internet cafes (so odd, eh?), and charging it has been an adventure on it’s own (except Apple’s new 7-hour battery life is excellent), I’m glad to have brought it. I don’t do many photo edits, but since there are no printers up in the hills we’ve been reading Bible Lessons from it in the morning, and updating the blog has been possible. And though books and warm stoves are a great combination, how can somebody say no to hanging with local kids and an animated movie? It was precious. The mom loved it. We ate great food, I sipped sweet milk-tea.

I’ve wondered about getting away from the buzz of technology and modern life. But why not embrace it, let it be a part of these experiences? I bring $4,000 digital cameras, LED head-lamps, and I find my newly designed synthetic 0-degree bag incredibly comfortable. Computer is no different. The journey does the work no matter what we profess. It’s not about us anyway.

The arduous day was weighing heavy and the beds called us. The gentle rush of river will be heard from my window as I sleep another peaceful night in the Himalayan foothills. It’s Thanksgiving day in 2009, and there’s a lot to be grateful for.

The group part of this abroad – that of India – is now over. Nepal begins. In fact my journey to Nepal began 13 years ago when I was a teenager at Camp Leelanau, a boy’s Christian Science Summer Camp I ruthlessly attended every Summer as a boy. A bunch of my counselors attended Principia college at the time, and many of them went on their distinguished abroad to Nepal.

In fact, I’d almost give those counselors as much credit for my keen interest in traveling as the random National Geographics that lay around my home growing up. Returning to Camp Leelanau was like a realm into the exotic: my heroes, these counselors, would arrive at camp daft with colorful clothes, things and stories from their journeys afar.

Over the years I became fascinated with the idea of traveling with a group of Christian Scientists. I’d like to say we travel a bit differently than most people. In fact, I can say that now. We’re (and by that I mean my perception) always putting spiritual things first, challenging ourselves as ideas of God rather than apparatuses of this world. It’s fun, it’s broadening, it’s spiritual – it’s what we live for really. All of us. I won’t fill this blog with it, but you can talk to me about it anytime.

So two birds, one stone. That is my keen interest and curiosity blowing forth through India and now Nepal – I (really) only dreamed of going on an abroad with Principia. I remember last year studying in London and creeping the Principia website for it’s upcoming abroad programs. My heart beat faster at the idea of being a part of the India 2009 group.

I can’t be grateful enough for this opportunity to travel with Graham Thatcher (The Boss), Lyndsay Eaton (Fiver), and Guy Walker (Climate Hero). I know they’ll be a good crew to crawl the world’s highest mountains with because we’ve already faced a nasty battle together: the public buses of India.

Busing

Think: India’s fastest growth in road-usage ever, more trucks and buses, 2 lane highways, riddled with motorcycles and small autowallahs and scrambling cows and the such, jams – lots of jams. The bus is packed. These are all the people who couldn’t get an advanced train ticket between Delhi and Gorakhpur. They probably don’t have credit cards to purchase tickets online.

We quickly find out that buses don’t only transport people, and neither just between Delhi and Gorakhpur. We stop often on the way, picking up people waving down the bus while trucking on at 50km/h. The brakes screech and 4, 5, 6 people pack into an already full bus. Luggage piles up in the center row. At one point a few older women are hoisted up the high step from the night street and Guy and I decided to stand for the next 4 hours so they can sit. They don’t say thank-you, and neither do Indian’s ever really.

Seats don’t recline and often there is a mobile phone squawking with Hindi-electric tunes. It’s annoying to hear, it’s bumpy, it’s dark and the windows aren’t sealed, so it’s freakin’ cold all night long. At one point Graham crawls through the flood of luggage called an aisle and pulls out the 0-degree down bag. It keeps 3 of us warm, but Guy survives in a seat near us with just a few layers on.

Midnight, 2am, 6am – the bus stops often for pee and chai breaks. About 6 hours into the ride we discover the bus ride we thought would end after 14 hours is actually a 24 hour journey. And that turns into a 26 hour journey because of multiple traffic jams before midnight. This later turns into 39 hours and 3 buses. But really, after 8 hours the mundane of it all becomes tolerable. I think mostly because there is so much happening on these buses. Really it’s like a huge family working together. During breaks we whistle at one another when the bus turns on, because the system is ruthless. When the engine starts, the wheels roll, and that doesn’t mean everyone needs to be on the bus. Hollering to others, people jump in and sit down. It’s quite adventures. Really adventurous when you have a hot chai in one hand and peanuts in the other.

Nepalese buses are worse. The landscape between Delhi and Gorakpur, then Gorakpur to the boarder town, Sonaul, is quite flat. But going to Kathmandu shows the real mold of a country formed from the Himalayas: valleys, rivers, high passes and worthless cement blocks that would only stop a power-wheel from rolling of the edge. The buses are a bit smaller and a bit zippier, and it’s again overnight. Pitch black except for the moonlight, all I see out the window is a fog of moisture deep in a valley just a few feet from the roads edge, treetops I could touch, and occasionally the depth of a river from the curvy road. It’s a particularly starry night. I try not to focus on possible outcomes and plug my ears into an ipod playing the tunes of Hammock.

Chai and pee breaks are also different. Breath becomes visible in the moist cold and chai is now prepared in pitch black and over stone stoves fueled with bush-wood where most of the passengers crowd around. It’s partly to drink a warm beverage, partly to warm up together. The fire’s warm glow is a stark contrast from the wet and cold of the dark beyond the road, but from my best judgement of peeing into a field, I think there were some cabbage being grown opposite the cliff on the other side. Guy, who pooped nearby, also thinks this. Poor farmer is in for a surprise, I reason.

Benjamin Chernivsky (dunno yet), Guy Walker (Climate Hero), Lyndsay Eaton (Fiver), and Graham Thatcher (The Boss).