The next afternoon, I duly pop in after another fantastic day riding Squaw. Wow. His photos are incredible and I wander around open-mouthed at his images and how they’re presented – bonded straight onto a high-quality perspex that gives them an incredible pop. ‘High Definition for photos’ is how he describes it. Over the course of our chat, I reveal that I enjoy a bit of photography too and he asks me the question that has prompted this blog – ‘what subject do you shoot?’.

I stumbled over some incoherent answer and have been thinking about it ever since. What do I shoot? Well I guess it’s what I see, which is often travel-related, but sometimes landscapes, sometimes abstracts, sometimes black and white, light/form. Hmm. I have tried to define my approach before, but somehow felt that I haven’t really got it straight yet. I like the element of chance, uncertainty and spontaneity and I’d love to be a street photographer (particularly after watching a clip about the rediscovery of Vivian Maier’s work), but I feel uncomfortable literally taking someone’s picture. It feels invasive. So instead I try to be present, to pick out little details, things that speak to me about a place and time. So does that make me a sort of inanimate street photographer? Or documentary self-portrait? I dunno really and I guess it doesn’t matter, but I’d like to be able to answer that question in a more self-assured way next time.

Returning to San Francisco, the only natural thing to do was to take my camera out and go and take some photos. See what you think.

According to Wikipedia:

The coffee production in Ethiopia is critical to the Ethiopian economy with about 25% of the population depending directly or indirectly on coffee for its livelihood. In 2006 coffee exports accounted some $350 million, equivalent to 34% of that year’s total exports…
Ethiopia is the world’s 7th largest producer of coffee, and Africa’s top producer, with 260,000 metric tonnes in 2006

And I’ve just come back from San Francisco, where you can’t walk more than 10 metres without a coffee shop of some sort. The US consumes more than 400 million cups per day – around 4.2kg per capita per year or 1,290,720 metric tonnes per year in total.

Ethiopians (or more precisely the Oromo) argue strenuously that they were the first to discover coffee, so I thought I’d buy some beans while I was there. One of our local WaterAid staff took me to a supermarket and proudly showed me the shelves of ground coffee – wanting to be a bit more authentic, I asked him if I could get some beans. He was a bit confused, and after a while responded with “ah, yes, raw coffee” and hustled me back into the car. After driving around for a while, he abruptly stopped outside a tiny shack and shouted over at the man behind a set of rusty scales. A brief haggling exchange resulted in a 500g bag of beans for about £3. Great! Except for the teeny tiny fact that they were green, unroasted beans. Too embarrassed and guilty to reject them, I sheepishly paid and smiled gratefully wondering what the hell to do with them.

Returning home, a quick Google search turned up lots of home-roasting pages. Turns out there’s quite an industry in it. Always game for a from-first-principles product, I gave it a crack. Dispensing with the technology (roasters, temperature gauges, roasting profiles, etc) that is apparently vital to a good roast, I whipped out my faithful wok. I’m pretty sure Ethiopians don’t need all that gubbins. Here’s how it went:

I love trees

Cruising out of the city on the Interstate 80, rain lashing down, which means snow in the mountains! Epic drive, with 100 mph winds and driving snow over the donner pass. A 3 hour trip end up taking more like 5, plus breaks to calm my rattled nerves and fire up my caffeine levels. Eventually roll into Squaw at 1am, crawl into the back of the van and fall asleep.

Next morning I’m woken by the sounds of ski patrol blasting avalanches with dynamite at around 6. Excitedly chucking on my snow gear, I throw back the door.

Well, I try to.

In just a few hours the snow has reached door level on the van and I’m stuck! My genius, free spirited car danchi adventure hadn’t factored in the reality of several feet of snow in a few hours. Fortunately the sliding door opens and I shovel my way out. After a bit of cursing and digging, I eventually free the car and drive round the corner to the lifts… which are pretty much all shut. 82 inches of snow in two days with strong winds has totally overwhelmed the staff and hiked up the avalanche risk astronomically. Turns out the I80 has been shut and I has missed the Caltrans advice not to travel. Oops. So now I’m stuck in Squaw no way in or out until the winds stop. Ordinarily this might be cause for concern, but I have time on my side.

Fortunately some of the lower lifts open a few hours later and I eagerly scramble onto one, unload, strap in and hungrily eat up the thigh deep powder. Now riding powder is one of those things where if you have to ask why it’s so great, you wouldn’t understand! Slashing through a turn, a perfect arc of snow cascading behind you like magic sparkles; punching through pillows, your snow covered face cackling insanely; looking down, trying to remember what your knees look like. Trust me, it’s good!

Such brings me to now, beer in hand, exhausted, happy, a little lonely without my friends and M, but full of the beauty of life, perfectly encapsulated by tiny little unique crystals of water falling freely from the heavens.

The ubiquitous rickshaw

Today Ali-bhai (-bhai is Bangla suffix meaning ‘brother’, more polite than just their name), M’s driver takes me on a trip to Old Dhaka. Just as we start off, the last two days of oppressive heat and humidity give way to a deluge from the heavens. Looking at the traffic and rising water levels on the road, I contemplate abandoning the trip, but am glad we continued – about an hour after setting off, we finally reach Old Dhaka (only a few miles away, but traffic makes it longer) and as if on cue, the rain stops. The downpour takes the heat out of the air and makes it all much more bearable.

Ali-bhai looking at mangoes

We stop at Hindu St, an old market street and wander through. Ali tries to explain the merits of Bangladeshi mangoes and how to tell which are Indian and which are Bangladeshi. We stop and drink strong and sweet tea from a street vendor. I smile sheepishly and watch as my tea takes shape. The cart is a filthy, ramshackle vehicle that wouldn’t look out of place collecting rubbish on a London street. A large, battered tin kettle sits boiling away and the vendor sieves my tea out into a small, but clean glass cup. A dollop of condensed milk from a tin and my scalding hot beverage is ready – 20 taka (less than 20p). I feel like Ali’s let me into a little club and catch a glimpse into his world as we sit with a group of other Bangladeshi men and Ali-bhai natters away.

Former glory of Ahsan Manzil

A few minutes of walking and we arrive at Ahsan Manzil – the former official residential palace and seat of the Dhaka Nawab Family. I gain a surprising sense of the former glory and the influence of this merchant family. The mediocre state of the building and the piles of litter in the garden are a sad reflection of the decline, but there is an unmistakable feeling of pride and a glimpse into Bangladeshi identity. There’s so much more I want to learn about this history and heritage. I bump into a random French guy – the first foreigner I’ve seen (outside of M’s friends). He’s a travel agent based in the Maldives, on holiday, seemingly by accident.

Sadarghat terminal

Frenetic activity at Sadarghat

A short stroll away is Sadarghat, Dhaka’s main terminal/port on the banks of the Buriganga. It’s a bustling, energetic place with people scurrying around and bags of good shuttling on and off ferries. I stand and stare, watching the ballet of movement and commerce in action. For some reason, I’m a little shy to draw my camera, so steal a few shots and hide my camera away lest I draw any more attention to myself. A couple of students engage me in a brief conversation – they’re on their way to visit a friend, 4 hours away by boat.

The last floods rose above this wall

We stop for some more tea, then hop in a rickshaw back to the car and fight our way through traffic to Lalbagh fort. On the way, we pass along the river road, I ask Ali about the floods and how they affect Dhaka – he points out a wall and explains that the last proper floods in Dhaka saw water levels rise above it. The wall stands a good 8 feet above sea level and is itself about 6 feet. He casually explains that we’re due for another flood and expects it in the next month or so.

Lalbagh Fort

Lalbagh Fort is an oasis of calm and tranquility amongst the hustle and bustle. It’s an incomplete Mughal fortress initiated by the Viceroy of Bengal, who was subsequently recalled. His successor never finished the fortress as his daughter, Bibi Pari, died here. I don’t really know much more about it, but again, is a glimpse of Bangladeshi heritage that I never really appreciated. The grounds are clean and well kept and offer a peaceful respite. Ali makes a comment to me as I head in that I don’t understand, but after wandering for a while, I realise that this seems to be a spot in Dhaka where couples hide out amongst the small trees. Nothing obscene by our standards, but I wonder whether this is seen as a secret lovers garden and chuckle quietly to myself.

On the way back to pick up M from work, I reflect on what a different experience this would be for her, a white woman on her own and how very different her relationship with Ali is. Both because she is his employer, but also that she is a woman. I feel strangely privileged to be able to hang out with Ali and to be able to sit and drink tea with him – it’s clearly a side of him and Dhaka that M will not get to see.

My day has been full of reflection and encounter. Old Dhaka is metaphorically and literally the heart of the city. The crazed flow of people and goods, the colourful rickshaws and crazy traffic, the smells, sights and sounds. I can see how it could be an overwhelming experience, a maelstrom of sensory overload, but I think you have to surrender to the chaos before you can finally sink in and enjoy it for the vibrant celebration of life that it truly is.

M’s place is lovely, big, bright and airy – certainly not representative of a typical Dhaka residence. We spend our first day wandering around Gulshan – visiting the Commissariat, where diplomatic staff can buy Cadbury’s chocolate, Haribo and pretty much anything you can get from home. Pop to the BAGHA (British Aid Guest House Association) club, the alternative to the British High Commission – pleasant, but slightly colonial feel to it.
After Japan, the heat and humidity and exhausting – plus I discover later that this is the hottest day they’ve had for a while!
Surprised by nice coffee shops and restaurants popping up in Gulshan – certainly not what I expected. Atmosphere is quite a contrast to the quiet order of Japan – you definitely feel a novelty as every pair of eyes follows your every move, M had warned me about the staring, but it really is something else to experience and definitely 10 times worse when I’m with her.
Regular approaches by professional beggars (they pay a local mafia for their pitch) are dismissed with a ‘ma coren’ or ‘lakbhe na’ – I forget which means which, but one means ‘sorry’, the other means ‘I don’t need it’. Quite hard to resist the temptation, but I have to try to think of the behaviour it reinforces and the structural changes that are needed to tackle poverty – but the human dimension is hard to ignore.

Stuff I shot in 2001-2002 from pierretube on Vimeo.

View from Helena's

A leisurely final day together – breakfast at the dizzying heights of Helena’s, some shopping and late lunch/dinner at Pilgrim’s feed n read. M leaves early the next day and I’m left on my own.

Thamel streets

The next day, I start with a tasty low-cholesterol breakfast at Pilgrim’s. I write and read a little, happy to have been recognised by the staff. Invited to music later. I wander Thamel and buy a bansuri, spend some time in the store playing guitar and thwacking drums. Wander off feeling blissfully happy and carefree.

Try to get an electric Safa Tempo, but get conned onto a normal tempo to Boudnath. 15 rupees later, having been squeezed into the low roof Suzuki, I spill out in front of Boudnath stupa. I pay 100 rupees for entry and get given a leaflet, before realising it’s free. It’s pretty, but no real connection, I spy a roof top cafe and seek it out.

Watchful eyes

The Saturday Cafe fills a spot and I sit, read and write, eavesdropping on conversations high about the stupa. Hours float by, soup and chiya. I wander off to find a gompa – the oldest in Boudnath.

Butter lamps

Wandering through narrow side streets, I sheepishly poke my head in and ask if it’s ok to look around. The monks speak great english, I slip my flip-flops off and slide through the curtain.

15 pairs of eyes swivel in my direction, still chanting.

I feel very out of place. Nervously namaste-ing, I creep in. A monk motions for me to sit just as a huge cacophony starts. The tantric drums pound through my body. I sit transfixed and gradually settle into the experience. I scatter rice as the monks perform full body prostrations. Then comes a point in the puja where something is poured into the monks’ hands, they sip it then wipe it on their shorn heads. A monk approaches and pours some of the bright yellow liquid into my hand. I follow suit and wonder what I’ve just consumed. Later they offer me bread (that is familiar to me as yau char kway) and some sort of hot drink – maybe involving yak butter. It’s sweet and warm, but looks like dish water. Unsure whether it’s right for me to take part, I decide to accept as an acknowledgement of our interconnectedness. Puja finishes and I’m swept into a sea of locals circumambulating the stupa. Dazzled and intrigued, I finally head back to Kathmandu.

Dusk at Boudnath

I visit Pilgrims’, intent on chilling to sitar music, but something doesn’t feel right. I reject the linen clad bearded hippies and head for Japanese food, contemplating the sudden influx of Japanese-ness into my life,

Dinner at O Fukuru No Aji is… spiritual and nourishing. I sit cross-legged, enjoying the calm, reading and writing – a happy closing memory of a great country to which we’re sure to return.

Goat on the roof of a passing bus

We probably didn’t do Lumbini justice, but we’re pleased to leave. The early morning mist and sunrise warm our hearts. We arrive early in Bhairawa and dodge bus drivers to contemplate our mode of transport. After waiting for it to arrive, we pay 750 rupees each for an A/C bus. Glorious luxury! Comfy seats, air conditioning, clean water, fantastic break stops. Overpriced, but worth it. Our bags were even in the boot!

We’re dropped rather unceremoniously on the outskirts of Kathmandu and after wandering around in the dust, pollution and noise, we find a tempo to Ratna Park for a mere 15 rupees. We find the Horizon Hotel and breathe a sigh of relief. O fukura no aji for dinner as we can’t see to find Koto.