“Namaste,” he greeted me with palms pressed together and a slight bow of his head. I thought that this was a very strange greeting in this region, the mountains of the Andes between Argentina and Chile. Before my brain, lacking from oxygen at more than 4000masl, could process the why, he had trekked on downwards, while I continued on with my ascend. The mystery of Namaste would be explained many hours later when we meet again. ***** I had reached Mendoza on Christmas Eve, and had decided to take a vacation from my holidays, or a holiday from my vacation, whichever way it was. And since I had to send in Cavalinho II for some touchups like new brakes and tyres in preparation for the Andes crossing into Chile, I granted Cavalinho II his annual leave for the festive period as well. I had pondered on doing the nearby Aconcagua, the highest peak in South America at almost 7000masl, but I couldn’t find any spare change in my pocket for the price tag of USD4000 and upwards. So I jumped at the chance when a host asked me along to the Cordon del Plata, with more than a few majestic peaks of its own, and more economical too. “Que??? Cavalinho has a break while I have to go with you for some tormenting climb???” My aching legs protested at the unfairness of his upcoming ordeal. ***** After a very long walk, a couple of hitchhikes, and a steep trek up the meandering mountain roads from where the bus left us, we finally arrived at Refugio San Bernardo. We took a short rest there before we carried on with our upwards trek, hoping to reach the Las Veguitas campsite to rest and acclimatise before the last light. The landscape and weather had slowly and sneakily transformed as we got up higher. From bark brown hills, the terrain altered itself into lush green meadows and stone grey mountains. Eventually, the snow-capped peaks came into sight. Zigzagging streams flowed through our paths, quenching our thirst and providing us with sweet spring water for the cooking and washing in our upcoming days. The hot summer climate gave way to the cool and fresh mountain air. Slow as the snow-capped peaks appeared, they were hastily and completely obscured by the clouds which enveloped us when we reached our campsite for the night. The temperature plunged dramatically once the rays of the sun withdrew itself. ***** As we huddled together for warmth one night in the comforts of our tent, away from the light drizzle of snow outside, I naively asked, “How cold do you think it is out there? 5 or 10 degrees Celsius?” Juan smiled curiously. “Yes, it’s probably 10, or 20… below zero.” My jaws dropped and eyes widened in astonishment. “But why doesn’t the stream freeze?” I wondered out loud. “Because it’s flowing,” Juan explained matter of factly, and I wished I had paid more attention in high school physics class. ***** I had not thought it was possible for me to reach Base Camp Salto, going solo, without food and with only a little bit of water left. Each step drew me closer to my goal, but also a little further away from my comfort zone. Although I did not suffer from the full blown effects of altitude sickness, the sensations of being light headed and breathless hammered me intermittently, along with hunger pangs and thirst. While the other mountaineers whom I’ve met were well equipped with their North Face down jackets, Columbia hiking boots and trekking poles, I had to be contented with my ragged signature Adidas red blue jacket and Ascics running shoes bought from the e-mart of course. Gusty freezing winds pierced through my useless jacket right into my bones and threatened to blow me off the ridges as I cowered down on the steep rocky slopes. My shoes constantly slipped about the little rock pieces as if I was climbing up on black brown marbles. Thoughts of giving up creeped into my mind incessantly, as I chewed on my chafed dried sunburnt lips. “Are you not cold?” A passing hiker asked me as he inspected my fashion choice. “F**king cold!” I answered through my rattling teeth as we both roared into laughter. “Slow and steady,” I keep telling myself, as I put one foot after the other at a snail’s pace. I drew an imaginary line at a point in my path, and told myself to get there, breaking my goal into small achievable tasks. Exhausted as I was, I could not afford to rest for too long each time I stopped, for my body would begin to cool down and I would start to feel the chills. Move to keep warm or stop and shiver. I was literally caught between a rock and a hard place (pun very much intended). This went on for a few more hours. Unexpectedly, Base Camp Salto appeared in front of me as I climbed over yet another almost vertical ridge. I had mixed feelings as I thought, “That’s it?” I strolled around the campsite and chatted with a few other mountaineers, and found a water source to refill my bottle. I sat down to appreciate the views, and to savour my sweet fruits of labour. For a few minutes, the cold, hunger and sore muscles didn’t matter. I could only feel my small little victory. “Pain is temporary. It may last a minute, or an hour, or a day, or a year, but eventually it will subside and something else will take its place. If I quit, however, it lasts forever.” ***** We went down to Refugio San Bernardo, where the New Year party was. There, I saw him again, Namaste. We had time to chat this time round. “Where are you from?” He enquired. “Singapore,” I replied. As we chatted more about our adventures, the answer to Namaste revealed itself. “I was in Nepal for quite a while. I greeted you with Namaste because I thought you were a Sherpa!” He exclaimed. Later on, Juan, one of the three climbing brothers I met on the way down also confessed to me that they also initially thought that I was a Sherpa. It was not only because of my standout mesmerizing good Asian looks, but also because they thought that for a guy to be trekking on the mountains of this level with my kind of clothes, shoes and lack of gears, that guy either had to be loco, or he had to be a Sherpa. Now, to be thought of as a Sherpa is a badge of honour I would very much like to wear, but do not deserve at all. The Sherpas are elite mountaineers who eat the Himalayas and Everest for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Sometimes supper. I was, and am just an ill-equipped amateur who is always trying to defy the odds and roll the dice. I just try my best with what I have. To me, it has never been about what or how much I must have. Having the heart, el Corazon, to do anything is most important. Doing and failing is so much stronger than ‘what if’, because ‘what if’ never went into the arena. From the days spent in the mountains with these serious mountaineers, I’d learned so much and feel truly humbled and inspired. Sometimes, the more we travel, and the more we learn, we realise just how ignorant we were, we are.
Posted on: Tue, 06 Jan 2015 01:40:36 +0000
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