Note: I read Seven Years in Tibet many years ago, when I read enthusiastically but blogged sporadically. Author Heinrich Harrer's account of the rugged terrain and simple, enduring folk who dominated his travel landscape triggered many memories of my own. To imply that I'm likening my experiences to that of Harrer's would be childish folly. Yet, the similarities between the spirit and warmth of these people during my own such travels are permanent in my mind.
I just finished reading Seven Years in Tibet. Author Heinrich Harrer's long, arduous journey to Tibet triggered by a freak circumstance, and details of his interaction with the Tibetan people along the way, are like none I have ever read before. They bring back many pleasant memories of fleeting encounters during my days trekking in India.
That said, I dare not call myself an adventurer or explorer. Yet my treks in the various mountain ranges of India have left many indelible impressions on my mind. On our way to the Saar Pass from Manali in Himachal Pradesh, we passed humble hutments with poor dwellers. Unused to the altitude, and tired from our treks, we sometimes stopped to chat as a friendly herdsman would greet us. On one such occasion we spoke wistfully of the long distance to our next camp, and a much-needed cup of tea. Before we could protest, the herdsman's wife went in and prepared hot tea for us. When we offered money she refused emphatically ... she almost sounded offended.
As I sit and type these memories at home in California, I am foolishly nostalgic. Here, in the world's great West, I have been inundated with the chant of "Nothing Comes for Free."
A cup of tea drunk in the shade of a hut; one apple sampled from a basket of 15; a warm bed, fire and a hot meal on a rainy night in the Sahyadris. These are the things my world was made of. And they were all given to me free, by some of the poorest people in the world.
I just finished reading Seven Years in Tibet. Author Heinrich Harrer's long, arduous journey to Tibet triggered by a freak circumstance, and details of his interaction with the Tibetan people along the way, are like none I have ever read before. They bring back many pleasant memories of fleeting encounters during my days trekking in India.
That said, I dare not call myself an adventurer or explorer. Yet my treks in the various mountain ranges of India have left many indelible impressions on my mind. On our way to the Saar Pass from Manali in Himachal Pradesh, we passed humble hutments with poor dwellers. Unused to the altitude, and tired from our treks, we sometimes stopped to chat as a friendly herdsman would greet us. On one such occasion we spoke wistfully of the long distance to our next camp, and a much-needed cup of tea. Before we could protest, the herdsman's wife went in and prepared hot tea for us. When we offered money she refused emphatically ... she almost sounded offended.
As I sit and type these memories at home in California, I am foolishly nostalgic. Here, in the world's great West, I have been inundated with the chant of "Nothing Comes for Free."
A cup of tea drunk in the shade of a hut; one apple sampled from a basket of 15; a warm bed, fire and a hot meal on a rainy night in the Sahyadris. These are the things my world was made of. And they were all given to me free, by some of the poorest people in the world.
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