EIGHT PIECES: Written treasures or “pieces of eight”

EIGHT PIECES by Bill Pigott

Written treasures or “pieces of eight”

Wishing to Share

Back in 1999, as I prepared to move from Nepal to Cambodia I wrote the following: “In that space between assignments, at rest, but awake and alive with thoughts memories and ideas, I found myself wanting to respond to the many who have asked me to share thoughts and stories. Wishing, not wanting.” One could reflect at length on the difference between wishing and wanting. I have been a story teller of sorts since childhood. Later I got into a habit of telling stories about my comings and goings and sharing my reflections on these with my children and other members of the family. I also wrote up some of my field visits and shared them with colleagues in our head office, where they often ended up in the staff newsletter. I was pleased to be putting in front of them some of the realities one faces when working in the field. I have used my own and other’s stories to illustrate ideas, to make points and to stimulate others, or to provoke them to see a situation from a different perspective.

In my last posting with WHO I was on many occasions asked to say a few words at the opening or closing of a conference or seminar. Early on I introduced some stories. People loved them. I was rewarded with other’s stories. Stories leapt out of the books I read, or rather books with suitable stories fell into my lap. People expected new stories all the time and expressed their disappointment when none were offered. People also clearly loved hearing again certain stories, told in different settings or in relation to different issues. Many asked for print-outs of the notes for my speeches and people have asked me again and again to share the stories I had gathered.

Always there was this wish within to share. But the time was not. Now, however there is a space, so I will start with pieces that have become small treasures for me, like pirates gold, my ‘pieces of eight’.

Eight Pieces:

  1. A meeting where road and river cross
  2. Words from Music
  3. Château la Pigotte: Summer 1992
  4. Family
  5. Solstice Celebration
  6. Protecting Pines
  7. Samundra Tar
  8. India Drive

The context of these tales is on a timeline that begins in Adelaide South Australia at the end of 1941, the second of what became a family of seven children, and continues through 70 years until the present in Berry NSW, with a number of journeys,  re-locations and other events, including marriage and fathering three sons, along the way. These journeys and re-locations resulted in a move to Brisbane at the beginning of 1948, to Sydney in 1953, travel in Asia, Europe and north America 1971 and 1972, Sydney 1973 to end 75, Adelaide until 81, then working for the World Health Organisation in Nepal until end 86, in Geneva until mid 95, back to Nepal for 4 years, and then 2 ½ years in Cambodia, returning to Australia in early 2002 for so-called retirement.

Also download to view:     eight-pieces-2015    Download

1        A Meeting Where Road and River Cross

It was just after Easter 1996. Two of our boys are in Nepal with us for Easter holidays from their respective boarding schools in England. Michael, 19, is studying for three to five hours each day for his A level exams while Peter, 17, is out trekking with a group from his school. I need to go to Pokhara  for a workshop on Primary Health Care, which is 200 km by road to the west of Kathmandu. I decide to drive there and take Leslie and Michael with me for the two days.

We set off soon after 7 a.m., an hour or so later than planned. I was sure I had set the alarm for 5 am in order to leave at 6, beat the traffic and be in Pokhara in good time for the 2 p.m. inauguration of the meeting. However the alarm was not on, and we left later than we had intended.  We knew that Peter was somewhere in Nepal with his school group, all 34 of them, and would spend some of that day on a river somewhere, rafting, having completed their 12 day trek in the Annapurna area. Leslie is sure they would be rafting on some other river than the one we would drive by on our journey.

The road to Pokhara does run alongside the Trisuli River for about 30 kms. On this stretch we often see rafting groups. A particularly good place from which to watch them from the road is just before the town of Mugling, midway between Kathmandu and Pokhara, where the road crosses a bridge and leaves the Trisuli River behind. As we approached Mugling, from the road, high above the river we do see a group of rafts on the river. Michael asks me to pull over. We stop to look down on them as they flow down a calm stretch. Some are paddling. Two people are in the water swimming and others are throwing buckets of water on another raft. Michael does a quick count and says the numbers are right. “It could be the Bryanston group”. He thinks he recognises one. As one of the swimmers hauls himself back into his raft, it could be our Peter, but we are too far away to be sure.

We drive on through Mugling, which perches above the river at a point where it makes a sharp turn through some rapids as it is joined by another river, to flow south under the Mugling bridge. We cross the bridge and stop again just in time to see the first raft come through the rapids and put ashore on the small beach just across the river from where we are stopped.  Michael climbs down closer to the river and from a splendid rock, watches the other rafts come through. By this time the first group of rafters are now out of their life jackets and helmets, and indeed it is the Bryanston School group. We recognise each other as Peters raft negotiates the rapids. As they all come ashore, we recross the bridge and go down the steep path to meet them. Clearly the rest stop was not for our benefit, and we learn that they had started earlier than planned in order to reach the Chitwan National Park, their destination for that day, a little earlier.  They all look great -tanned, relaxed, happy and at peace. They had a great trek, and the rafting so far had been excellent.

For us, what a wonderful coincidence. What an auspicious crossing of paths. One party starts later than intended and the other starts earlier, so that we meet, in that few moments of a window of opportunity. How wonderful. How extraordinary, and in true Nepali style, how auspicious, that unplanned and unforseen meeting where road and river cross.

2.   Words from Music:

Two pieces that move me greatly as music, but also as words, are ‘’Dies Natalis” by  Gerald Finzi and one of Vaughn Williams’ ”Five Mystical Songs” which sets poems of George Hebert to music.

The Vaughn Williams setting of this particular poem of George Hebert has been a treasure, carried deeply within, since my mid twenties. I used to sing it out loud during my trek in and around the Annapurnas at the end of 1970, on those occasions when I found myself walking alone or had stopped to let a mountain vista overwhelm me and take me away! To me the song  represents the essence of the immediacy of the present moment, the allness of today, of each day.

“I got me flowers to strew thy way;
I got me boughs off many a tree:
But thou wast up by break of day,
And brought’st thy sweets along with thee

The Sun arising in the East,
Though he give light and the East perfume;
If they should offer to contest
With thy arising, they presume.

Can there be any day but this..
Though many suns to shine endeavour?
We count three hundred but we miss:
There is but one, and that one ever .

The Finzi piece is different. There is a more sublime sense to this setting of words by poet  Thomas Traherne. He  actually uses the word sublime and speaks directly to me of the profound joy of being alive, while at the same time pointing out the beyondness of our being, to the infinite worlds and dimensions beyond what we see and feel at the moment. The piece Dies Natalis, with words by Thomas Traherne, has four parts, Rhapsody, The Rapture, Wonder and The Salutation. The words that follow are the first part, Rhapsody, and are adapted from Centuries of Mediation, the Third Century

Will you see the infancy of this sublime and celestial greatness?

I as a stranger, which at my entrance was saluted and surrounded with innumerable joys; my knowledge was divine. I was entertained like an Angel with the works of God in Splendor and glory. Heaven and earth did sing my Creator’s praises, and could not make more melody to Adam than to me. Certainly Adam in Paradise had not more sweet and curious apprehensions of the world than I.

All appeared new, and strange at first, inexpressably rare and delightful and beautiful.. All things were spotless and pure and glorious. The corn was orient and immortal wheat, which never should be reaped nor was ever sown. I thought it had stood from everlasting to everlasting.

The green trees, when I saw them first, transported and ravished me, their sweetness and unusual beauty made my heart to leap, and almost mad with ecstasy, they were such strange and wonderful things.

O what venerable creatures did the aged seem! Immortal cherubims! And the young men glittering and sparkling Angels, and maids strange seraphic pieces of life and beauty. I knew not that they were born or should die; but all things abided eternally.

I knew not that there were sins of complaint or laws. I dreamed not of poverties, contentions or vices. All tears and quarrels were hidden from mine eyes. I saw all in the peace of Eden. Everything was at rest, free and immortal

I share them with you.

3.   Château la Pigotte: France, Summer 1992

One of our excursions as a family in the European summer of 1992 was a camping trip to the Atlantic coast of France.

We, the two parents, 3 teenage young men and one large dog, travelled from Geneva across the centre of France and stayed the first night near Figeac. This is a lovely old part of France, near the Dordogne valley, not far from the place where they found the remains of the Cro-Magnon man and close to those famous caves with the pre‑historic paintings of hunting scenes. We found ourselves in a valley that reminded us all of the settings we have imagined as we read books such as the Hobbit or stories from medieval times or the middle ages. It had the feeling that people had been living here for a long long time, as indeed they have.

We reached the coast near Mimizan (to the south‑west of Bordeaux) on the second night, and camped on a farm not far from a relatively isolated surfing beach. Actually it would be better described as an isolated bathing area on a beach that extends for miles and miles of coastline within a National forest, with only a house for the lifesavers who patrol the area, and without all the resort facilities of the less isolated places.

The surf was great. I treasure the moment when our youngest Peter, having caught a decent wave, comes out of the water with his face beaming, to say “now I know what it’s like to catch a wave.”

We took our big dog Matts with us (He was a Bernese mountain dog). He loved the beach. However we only let him have one go at it, because on his first experience of a beach and the sea, he drank so much sea water as he romped along the water’s edge, in and out of the waves, crouching in the shallows and rolling on the wet sand, that he later started vomiting the sea and squirting it out the other end! He didn’t seem too bothered by it all, but we thought it would be more predictable if it didn’t happen again. He travelled well in the back of the station wagon, but I think by the end, he was wondering when we would get back home to things more familiar. On the last day we were camped, he preferred to lie in his place in the back of the station wagon. We took it as his hint to get going on our way home! 

We had two wonderful days surfing and then decided to go back to the area in which we’d stopped on the way over, so that the boys could do some canoeing. However we would not go straight, but make a diversion through the Medoc region of Gironde, a little to the north of where we had been surfing, to look for the place where they grow and make the wine which bears the label Château La Pigotte Terre Feu.

The clue that there exists such a place came through the visit of our good friend from Australia, Graeme Morgan. At the time we were living in Switzerland, just outside Geneva, because of my work at WHO Headquarters.  Graeme spent a couple of days with us at the beginning of July 1992. One day we took him on a trip across the lake by paddle steamer, from nearby Nyon to the lovely old lakeside village of Yvoire. On the way back through Nyon, Graeme suggested we find “nice bottle of wine for dinner”. I remembered there was a gourmet shop nearby, although had never ventured within. We found it and as we browsed the shelves, I came across a bottle labelled   

Château La Pigotte Terre Feu’ 1988 Medoc“,

We bought a bottle and thoroughly enjoyed it that evening with our meal. The label contained the address of the wine maker, a M. Freche of St‑Yzans du Medoc, but of course we could not find such a village on any maps we had at home.

It was a good wine and the label made us curious, but it was not until we had already planned our trip to the Atlantic coast that we even considered a side trip to hunt down a place named with our name.

It was not until we were in that part of France, in the Departement adjacent to the Gironde, that we were able to find a map that actually showed St‑Yzans du Medoc, a small village, 65km or so north‑west of Bordeaux, off the N215, beyond St Laurent‑et‑Benon, near Lesparre‑Medoc.

With map in hand, a spirit of adventure and a full tank of petrol, not to mention the full car, with its five adult sized people, roof rack piled with camping gear and large 45 kg dog in the back, we set off from our coastal campsite for the Medoc.

The Medoc is such beautiful country, with its vineyards and noble chateaux. The land transforms into rolling hills as we moved north. We turned off the main road N215 just before the town of Lesparre‑Medoc, which is just to the north of the famous Mouton‑Rothschild vineyards. We passed through beautiful old villages and by the occasional ancient stone windmill, and found St-Yzans without any trouble.

There were a couple of prosperous looking wine Cellars in the village, both open for tasting and purchase. We asked.  No, they had never heard of Chateau La Pigotte …but wait a minute, one of them knows of Monsieur Freche, who lives on the other side of the village, by the bakery.

We ask again at the bakery.  Yes, but of course, M. Freche lives just down the lane. ( all of this done in my best, but far from good, French ) We move on, feeling as if we are on a treasure hunt. The house was all open, and even fresh loaves of long French bread were on the table, obviously to accompany an excellent dish that was announcing itself most aromatically from the kitchen window and open back door. However no‑one appeared to be about.  A young boy soon arrived on his bicycle.  “Yes, this is the home of M. Freche, but he is at the vineyard, which is 5 or 6 km away, near the village of Blaignan”.  “Look for the sign La Pigotte at the first turn after the Chateau La Gorce and follow the road….”

As instructed, we find the sign, LA  PIGOTTE, follow the road through the vines of the Domaine La Pigotte, and reach a high wall, behind the locked gates of which is a fine old house. That must be the Chateau. The road turns along the wall and crosses an open area onto which face a number of houses and sheds, including a substantial old stone barn like building which extends from the back of the Chateau. AN elderly man walking determinedly towards the old stone building with an empty wine bottle does not seem to notice us. We later realise why, when we see him return, clutching his full lunch‑time bottle of wine.

Another man comes out of his front gate to talk with us. He is, he tells us, the owner of one of the houses in the hamlet and would appear to want to own the vineyards here as well. He explains that “Chateau La Pigotte” could have one of 3 meanings as far as wine is concerned: wine made in the Chateau, in the old stone building right behind us, (from which the man with his lunch‑time bottle now appears); secondly, wine made from grapes grown on the Domaine La Pigotte;  or wine from other wineries who wanted to use the name because Chateau La Pigotte had won a Gold Medal in Paris some years ago.

I didn’t quite catch the last bit and it was all made less clear later, when we met the man who does own the Domaine La Pigotte and makes the wine from its grapes, Monsieur Freche himself. He inferred that our first informant was a bit of a fool who talks too much. Indeed he had been  most talkative. We heard about his many children..4 sons and 3 daughters; about his son who has a girlfriend from NZ and another whose girlfriend is to go to Australia on an exchange;   of a daughter who is a nurse, and two who are secretaries; of how he had come down here from Brittany, and how he loves the life down here, and how much he would like to be able to own the whole set‑up and make the wine we are interested in…  and so on.

If we want wine, he says we must go to that house, the one next door, to which the old man with the full bottle of wine has now returned, without even appearing to notice our strange caravan. Just then, a man on a tractor draws up and parks nearby. As we had driven into the hamlet, we had noticed him trimming the vines with circular blades mounted on the back of his tractor. He approaches the house in question.

Yes, he is Mr. Freche. Yes, he does have wine available, and if we want some he will go and get the key.  The key is enormous, and fitting for such a noble stone building.

We follow him deep into the old stone building; into its subdued light and coolness, past the huge stainless steel vats in which the first stage of the wine making takes place; into the cool dark room of wooden casks in which the wine is aged; to the bottling room where the 1988 and 1989 wines are in their bottles in neat stacks against two of the white stone walls.  A large fireplace seems to take up a third wall, and he reaches for several glasses from the jumble of things on its wide timber mantel. He washes the glasses and takes a bottle from the stack of 1988, draws the cork and pours 5 glasses; we all taste, except Peter, who doesn’t wish to (so we hand Freche one of the glasses..)

It all seems just right. The right setting, the right wine, the right colour, the right bouquet, and  a most refreshing taste …excellent: Perhaps it has a thinner taste than the one we had enjoyed back home ?  Perhaps not.   Anyway, to us, who have no expertise in the matter of wines, but know what we like, it seems to be pretty good. (Or as Leslie says, “…a little young now, but it will be great.”)  It is good enough to ask for 14 bottles. It cost us 32 French francs per bottle, which in those days was equivalent to about $6 (and I’d have bought more if I had not been concerned about further overloading an already overloaded car!  Maybe we can order more later.) I decide then and there that I will take some as Christmas gifts for each of my four brothers and two sisters when we go to Australia the following December.

  1. Freche shows us the corking and labelling equipment and talks about his wine making. He gives us some labels as souvenirs. His accent was sometimes difficult for even our bilingual sons to decipher, let alone their not‑so‑young parents, but we did pick up the essentials of his story. Last year’s crop was entirely wiped out by late frosts. This year’s could be excellent. He had obviously escaped the storms of the previous weekend that had caused so much damage in the Margaux area to the south and was pleased about that.
summer 92 winesummer 92 winesummer 92 winesummer 92 winesummer 92 winesummer 92 winesummer 92 wine

Clearly there was some issue between our man of the vines and the talkative newcomer from Brittany, with whom we had spoken on first arriving in La Pigotte. It may have concerned the latter’s attempt to buy up the land he wanted, with each seeing the other as some sort of rival. The old house had been bought recently and renovated by a business man from Castelnau or Bordeaux.

Before we moved out of the tasting room to leave the winery, Mr. Freche presented us with a bottle of 1989 wine as a gift. It seems much more than just a complimentary bottle of wine, perhaps indicating that after all he appreciates our special interest in his place and its wine.

They had no idea where the name La Pigotte comes from. It has been the name of this locality for as long as anyone can remember. They have no idea what the name means. No, they cannot recall of anyone with the name Pigott, or anyone who knew anything about the origin of the name. (We do know the name is from Normandy and that Pigott ancestors travelled with William the Conqueror to England in 1066). One senses that such questions are of less importance to a man of the land who carries on the craft of his father than they are to a foreigner from a foreign land who happens to have the name “Pigott”, interesting though that may be. …and interesting indeed to the old lady whom I imagined to be the mother of Mr. Freche, who is fascinated that we should have come to buy their wine because it bears our name….

As we leave, the talkative man runs after us, to show us the coat of arms, or rather the sign of the house La Pigotte, carved in stone high on the end wall of one of the ancient outbuildings. It was in the form of a hollow circle, the upper 2 quadrants with grapes and the lower 2 grapes and wheat, symbolising the bread and wine produced from the domaine.

We depart with our wine, some photographs, addresses, a very real sense of a link with a place and a feeling that this had indeed been an adventure worth having.  We stopped on the way out to photograph Pigotts against the sign “La Pigotte” and had a quick look in the Cemetery of the nearby village of Blaignan, but there were no names there that might be  meaningful in terms of our family history.

Footnote:  We learned a little later of another wine with a Pigott label. Another friend who came to stay with us in Switzerland presented us with a bottle of South Australian white wine he had found in a wineshop in England with the label Pigott Hill. It was a fine drop, but we have never been able to locate its origins.

Years later, in the locked glass doored cabinet at the local wineshop in Berry NSW we see bottles of a rather expensive Clarendon Hills Piggott Range Syrah, nestled amongst precious bottles of Grange Hermitage. The wine is from a hillside vineyard planted in the 1960’s adjacent to the Onkaparinga Valley in South Australia. For one bottle of Clarendon Hills Piggott Range I would need somewhat more than what I paid for all 14 bottles of Château la Pigotte at the winery back in 1992 !


4.    Family… Switzerland,  November 6 1994:

Yesterday we went walking with two dear friends, walking up a mountain for a picnic with the finest of views, on one of those spectacular autumn days on which the suns rays reach down to touch the earth like the fingers of God, make rainbows, and move patches of sunshine across the mountainsides, and touch us in a most moving way. Returning from the heights, we find ourselves walking in pairs.

Astrid and Bill walk and talk of connectedness, of being in tune with the earth’s rhythms in the same manner as they observe the grasses do, seeing how the grasses, the dried flowers and the berried branches, in the same wind, all wave their own frequency, each with their own rhythm, creating a visual  harmony in their collectiveness, interweaving and interacting. As they walk, they appreciate their own resonance with the mountains’ mood and the process of the day.

Meanwhile Sandra and Leslie move at a faster pace and discuss with each other their experience of relationships with others, and Leslie is drawn out on what having the three the boys away at boarding school during term-time means for her.

The following morning Leslie shares some aspects of the conversation and relates how she described the episode of distance between us in Nepal as a “falling out”. She described to Sandra how she dealt with it by focusing on the positive aspect of being a family, because of the strong family unit, the strong family structure we had… even if, as two of its members, we had “fallen out”.. The strength of the family as a whole was for her the positive force on which to focus. Interestingly, at the time, I also dealt with the situation (after experiencing some hurt and negative feelings) by consciously focusing on positives. For me, it was a focus on the positive in her.., effectively pushing aside the angry and negative thoughts, the feeling sorry for myself, by focusing on her strengths and the things I valued in her and about her. I had always believed it was that which had made the difference.  However, now she tells me, 10 years later, that she was also using a positive focus; and now I perceive that in itself is another of her great strengths.., that she would see our small family as a strength in itself, with a being or an identity of its own, above and beyond the identity of the couple defined as the parents.. 

It presents me with a most exciting concept of family as an entity with its own innate life, of which the parents are a part. But more than that, of which the parents are but two individual members..,  so that the family as a group can live on, even if two of its members need distance from each other or experience changes in the way they feel about each other… the individuals each contributing to the life of the entity, as equal contributors… as beings within a group; contributing to the group’s reality, because they are members, not because of their age, experience, contribution or role;  They each contribute because they are there, because they belong.. (shades of the recently discovered book “The Tao of Pooh” by Ben Hoff). It certainly puts the notion of family on a higher plane… no longer permits one to see children as appendages, no longer parents as the driving force… no longer the couple as the most important element, but the group, with its higher level of being.. its higher purpose as that essential aspect. It throws away the notion of ownership…  even of stewardship on the part of the parents,  and brings forward the mutual nature of relationships in a family process..

What a flurry of ideas. So many thoughts.. and an underlying sense of profound insight into what enables our family experience to be so rich, so different and unexplainable.. and at the same time for it to be such a source of energy for me, not as father, but as member with father responsibilities.

Leslie you have this day given me a gift. The gift of insight, of new awareness before un-noticed…   maybe even a step ahead in my understanding of the way people interact. I will have to look again at what others say about family relationships.

The whole issue is reflected in other aspects of our own family life: – the sharing of decisions, planning, and responsibility; – everyone’s involvement in decision making; –  respect for each other and for the family as a unit; – investment of time and effort, on the part of all of us, in being a family; – helping each other at times of trouble and need; – being concerned for each other, rather than finding fault or blaming; –  trying to understand, and helping each other to do so; – celebrating each others successes, participating in each others downs. 

Yes, there must have been leadership in the early days from the parents, but it clearly became a self strengthening system, which at a time of crisis, clearly helped two of its members, the parents, survive that crisis. It is “being a family” as a self strengthening process. Probably  the real leadership and foundation, the underlying strength was the mother, who perceived that she was a contributor rather than just the source, whose notion of family and being a partner was not one of possession, not one of owning.. nor even of creating.. but that of a process of which she is an integral part,  not as provider, but as facilitator.. She started as catalyst, and has in turn become enriched by the process she initiated and thus enabled to nurture and facilitate its process, as well as to receive strength when she needed it.  It is a leadership that enables others to grow, as individuals, ..retaining respect for herself and each member as an individual, each entitled to be respected as such;  not one losing their individuality because they became part of a couple or were born into a family… but all playing their unique parts as extra ordinary components in a process… mutually strengthening the individuals so that they become exponentially stronger as a group,  .. a group whose mutual strength now strengthens each individual, and is available to be drawn upon by the individuals, should they so choose to do….  

How beautiful this seems to me, as I perceive, in a very real way, family as the first and most immediate layer in an infinite series of energy levels from which we can all draw.. And I see also, now more clearly than ever before, how this has emerged with the five of us, how it has developed. I can see how it has grown through circumstance; ..travel as a couple and the uncertainty and adventure that brings; losing early pregnancies; three births as individual entries, one a breech, the second head first as normally is the way, but a slow and long delivery, the third a caesarean; life events.. shared work experiences, always reaching into the human dimension of various activities, with students, colleagues and others often sharing our home and our food around our family table; a time of shared involvement in a community programme helping other young parents cope; full involvement in each of the schools the boys have attended; reading together as a family for so many of those early years (helped by not having TV or Video in Nepal); eating together at the table, whenever possible, and in later years it becomes a real round table, physically and intellectually; episodes such as Michael’s skull fracture and all sharing the response, the concern and the care; and being galvanised by the experience; Peter’s asthma and David’s various injuries; lots of travel and adventure; being interested in, supporting, contributing to and going to see each others performances, whether sport, theatre or music;  the many extra-ordinary people who have shared themselves with us as a family, those who stayed with us, dined, trekked, travelled, camped, celebrated and so became not only our families enrichment but its extendedness; dealing with dyslexia times two;  the ups and downs, letting the traumas and the frustrations become the learning experiences which would help us better deal with the next one; the expressions of concern, the shared joys, sorrows and tears (recalling some of those precious moments, such as the morning each, one by one, tearfully embraced Michael as he set off, the first to leave home, for boarding school; the touching concern the other two showed for David when his first love broke off their relationship; the three boys concern whether the parents would be all right with the three of them away at school..  etc.,); and all the shared music, the shared laughter;

It is all about being a family..  with all those reminders that we are individuals within the flow of being a group, and the privilege of having developed the respect for each other that enables us to recognise each other’s worth, as well as each others need to be different and to have space and time to oneself within the ongoing life of the group.. and the privilege of having one amongst us who had such a vision of what it might mean to be a family..!!!  ( and if ever I thought about the  positive aspects of Leslie as a person, this out-shines them all…)

However the day in the mountains will not be remembered for so much for all this, but more for Leslie’s unplugging of the car’s exhaust pipe and the shared picnic on that seemingly timeless and infinite sunlit space on the side of the mountain, with four kindred spirits at the centre of this huge kaliedescopic disc of mountainscape and autumn sky…

           all part of the process and privilege of being alive……..

           and discovering the extendedness of being family….


5.  Solstice Celebration

a Saturday morning meditation     June 21 1997

 I finish my morning yoga. I am still in that wide wide  space between my inner depth and life’s infinite expansiveness, that space that one touches with the practice of  yoga. I play some music with Celtic rhythms, some of which goes right into my bones. Some new thoughts arise, and I find myself reflecting, exactly why, I do not know, on my own biology. Leslie and I have shared that creativity and three sons now add value to life, to our lives and to others’ lives, each in their own precious way. David, the reality and depth of it all; Michael, the salute to the sun of the yoga I have just completed; and Peter the Namaste of this monsoon morning. Yes they are our biology, but they have their own souls, their own destiny and their own leap into times beyond those we ourselves enjoy.

And then there is my other biology. My mother will celebrate her 83rd birthday this coming week. Gratitude and humility open my arms and then bring my hands together, as, with head bowed,  I acknowledge what she has given, to my brothers and sisters and to us.

It seems I know now more about the energy that being parent both takes and gives. I know I have taken. I hope what I have given back to her has been received; I think of the brothers and sisters themselves, each in their own space, and the biology beyond, which is now my soul connection with those special ones who have been with me, who in many ways still accompany me on my journey.. especially my father.

I guess this is yoga of another sort. Reaching out to those that have that special link.

Reaching in to my own within, conscious that they are all part of what I am and of this full and joyous moment, as Himalayan day awakens to its own timeless rhythm-  taking us all with it into spaces bigger than we think we are, enriching us as we let ourselves be linked and taken beyond, well beyond our own biology.

Is this prompted, I wonder, by being physically in Nepal, midway between where those special people  are in Europe and Australia, the coming birthday of one of the generation before, this weeks ending of schooldays for one of the generation ahead, and that sense of being part of the generations far beyond with which those Celtic rhythms surround me. 

Ah, life is good. It has such a sense of wholeness. The spaces between my own molecules and atoms are the same spaces as between theirs. We are one and I feel it and am thankful that I am able so to do.

I write this  for Leslie and especially for Michael for I know he will know what I mean, but also for  David, who lives it rather than talking it and would rather discover it for himself, and Peter does not need the words since he lives it anyway.. as we all do. This yoga of the mind, this family yoga…I, Leslie and them…. Being. Connected, being together, but each their own.

There is a joy that this all brings. Gentle tears reflect that fullness to overflowing, and just as with the well that fills from its spring within, the junk floats to the top and away. Gone is any thought of regret and anger, replaced by a lightness, a fullness and a peace that is felt today within my very bones.

Perhaps the preceding week contributes.. An evening with Jesuit Cap Miller, reading together mystic Christian poets, listening to Loreena McKennitt’s setting of a poem of St John of God and introducing to him my own favourite Vaughn Williams and his setting of Easter poems of  another Christian mystic, George Herbert . Together we feel that Herbert’s 23rd psalm would comfort a mother we both know whose son was recently lost to his self administered gun shot. Sadly so, but I see this morning that such things are part of it all.

I give a thought to my own mother’s 83 years, so much love so freely given, but also the break-up of her own family as part of her father’s alcoholism, her mother’s early death, the war deaths of father and both brothers, a husband with a chronic illness, her own brief breakdown, a precious daughter scalded with boiling water and her guilt that she should have prevented it, the 7 children, troubles with schooling for some, similar to those we face but  for which we were able to get expert help, because the so-called problem is now understood; accepting her two gay sons; surviving a pulmonary embolism, and yet now such a gracious lady with her artificial knee and intraocular lenses, and a heart that is much larger than all the joys and sorrows of all her children and their families, who is so full of vigour and good humour, that she shares the sparkle in her eye with her grandchildren.

It is a sparkling space in a monsoon morning. The room is filled with sunlight. Outside,  the green is so green that the red of the bougainvillaea, the red red roses and salvia in the garden cry out their colour, so brilliant, so joyful in themselves. They contribute to the day.

I sit and look around. I can see 4 small blue glass vases, hand made in Afghanistan, transmitting the morning light into the adjacent dining room. Nearer, on the wall between, are photographs with their Buddhist images, David’s prayer flags, Michael’s Boudha monk, Leslie’s of Thyangboche and mine from Ladakh. Monks and mountains.

 My eyes fall upon the rugs and weavings that surround me, the work of many hands in many places, each with their own story and their own special connections. Oh, the joy of supporting and being supported.

Hands open to receive and hands coming together, from bidding, to Namaste.



..and the last song on the McKennitt CD, Parallel Dreams, completes the meditation. It is “Ancient Pines”, and how appropriate, for that links with other pines of mine, and another story, already written, but obviously linked and ongoing.

A little later, I move with my breakfast tray to our rooftop terrace.

Now the valley is clouded. Gone is that sense of blue sky infinity we feel so often in this valley. Come is the monsoon closeness. But somehow it does not diminish the reality of that infinity. Perhaps it even intensifies it, as the cloud cover makes one more aware of the valley itself, and Kathmandu as the hub of that great wheel of life, that centre of the mandala that draws all sorts of connections to me at this moment. And before me another delight of the morning, the deepest red colour imaginable of plums from our own garden, chopped and mixed with the gold, equally deep, of a mango from the market… 

What a richness to accompany the croissants, the coffee and this Saturday break in my work routine. I am so privileged. Thanks be.


         Chataigneriaz, Switzerland,  27 March 1994 ,         

on a beautiful spring morning, after a run in its freshness


I listen to the cello harmonies of John Tavener’s “the Protecting Veil”..   -and it seems to be the right music for the movement of the wind tossing the pines outside the large window by which I sit, and of the small bird flitting in and out of the cones on the end of the branch nearest to me.

I think for a moment that it would make a good visual accompaniment to the music…  …just the branches waving and the sunlit needles vibrating in harmony with wind and music, each needle catching morning suns rays…

and I recall other occasions on which pine needles caught morning suns’ and other rays and it makes me wonder whether pines themselves have been for me a protecting veil.

the thoughts just  tumble out…

           a poem written in California

           – Crystalline pines exploding into light

           needles encased in ice, each catching

           the momentary blast of sun’s brilliance

           as clouds parted one December.

           another poem -another morning

           dew on the needles

           announcing suns arrival with a fanfare

           in the Canadian Rockies

           earliest memories of gathering pine cones

           in the parklands near where we lived
          from ancient pines which still stand to remind me
          that 45 years on, our span is but a small part
          of the bigness of things
          and that their hugeness and darkness
          was then a little more than frightening


           and then the Norfolk Island pines
          that characterise so many Australian beaches,.
          not the least those at Manly near Sydney
          and the holidays we had there as a family
          from when I was six
          in my grandmother's house
          and the small holiday apartments we would sometimes rent
          - the sea, the sand, the sunburn,
          the hours of swimming until our fingers and toes
          would wrinkle like prunes...
          - and the evening walks
          along the promenade     
          between the huge pines, beneath which
          we would make swords from their needles
           and later how we would live in an ancient house
          which used to be called "Pine Ridge"
          and my sense of history which had me plant pines
          where they had been long gone
           and pines in Nepal, with their wonderful colours
          I remember the deep purple-blue of the cones
          on the spruce near Thyangboche
          and how they framed for us the high Himalaya
          as we five neared the high point
          of our three week Khumbu trek,         
          the pines no doubt framing the family for them;
          - noble pines on the Panch Pokhari trek;
          pines planted in another garden
          and the many pines of the many young forests
          through which we would walk
          on the many treks we did
          during our six years in Nepal
           and other walks through the pines
          in Canada, Switzerland and the Adelaide Hills..

           and the sound

                       Oh listen to the sound

                                  as the earth breathes


                                                         and out

           across these connections
          through those needles
         how I love that sound and how it fits the music,
          the cello and the strings that weave now their theme
          to reach deeply within me that part of my soul that is most deep

          and maybe there is further resonance and harmony
          as John Tavener sets to music
          that story of Orthodox monks who
          saw a vision of the protecting veil of Mary
          back in the Tenth Century, the very music
          that now sets alive for me
          this tapestry of pines
           none the least of which are the many Christmas trees
          that have helped us celebrate the birth of Christ
          ... and that takes me on another circle
          another movement of my own symphony
          another poem to set to the music of
                      wind in the outstretched arms
                                 of the many pines
                                            I have encountered


II    –  SECOND HEARING                                                     

           I like it how
          as when seeds are sown,
          time and warmth and water
          empower them to grow,

           so with my pines
          many others now remembered
          and each connected with someone or other special....

           in the south of France, February 1971, at Cassis
          a Youth Hostel in and old foresters house;
          the peace of les Calanques, those long
          limestone inlets from the Mediterranean
          and the pines...
                      sun on the blue sea and a morning swim
                      followed by the joyous sounds of
                      a group of young French people
                      with their guitars and songs...

           a similar sense of peace
          on the Adriatic island of Brioni off Istrea
          walks, pines, bicycle rides and rich conversations...

           and on the hills behind Kathmandu
          pines walked through and picnicked beneath...

          and a house in Pennant Hills in Australia
          with its two ancient pines
          beneath which one year we celebrate Christmas
          around a smaller younger one
          decorated by the small boys,
          watched by their aged grandfather,
          freshness of youth adjacent to the nobility of age..

          - and now the Siberian Spruce in its wooden tub,
          alive, but contained,
          drawing together a world of connectedness
          for the last seven Christmases but one
          bringing with its candlelight
          a softness from other worlds and other times
          and from those who taught us
          to celebrate by lighting candles...

          and how, so often, they have been in pairs
          two graceful beings reach into the sky
          reaching into each other,
          arms intertwined,
          hands open and outstretched,
          in peace to all.....


           and on another occasion
          the music again prompts reflection:
          again the wind in the pines plays its part
          to evoke a wonderful sense of new being...
          of trust and love....

           of how Trust.... is; 
          and Love just 'is'
                     not intentional, not something wanted
                     and then turned on;
                     but a resonance,  a response,  a sharing...
          a hearing of music that is there
                     not of sounds conjured up
                      but a tuning in to existent energy

           and yes, a tuning in
          an appreciation, a realisation
          a focus with intent to hear:
intention that is not a deciding to be
but to realise the being,
to manifest the reality,
the reality of being.

becoming what is
emerging from a shadow;
bringing forth that dimension
whether it be love, trust
          music or connectedness.

and as it is shared, it resonates;
as it is connected, it vibrates within the other;
is amplified like the vibration of
the deepest bell you have ever known...
until all are vibrating
with the same frequency

                       vibrating profoundly
                      with love, trust, connectedness and being.

I letting go the illusion that I can just turn it on
letting go the phoniness
                                 the calculated
                                            the contrived
                                                        the artificial
                                                        the "turned on"...
so that authentic being can rise up
a creative force in people themselves,
between them and those with whom they interact
within their communities

human being a reflection
of what whole people really are...
their bodies, minds, hearts, and souls interacting,   … ...being

And will our communities again become whole
with that wholeness of body mind and soul
          of action, thought and being
that itself brings forth
          the same from its members ?
a holy resonance
as communities affect each other
and societies themselves become whole again ?

and I am struck once again by the inner realisation
that there is a profound difference
between "having" and "being"..
-and how so many who experience in another
the other's truth of being,
try to concoct or generate in themselves the same,
because they must "have" what they see with their brains;
instead of relaxing and letting their own being be,
they try too hard and thus create a cruel forgery,
a counterfeit form, imposed harshly,
- not only on themselves, but on others,
in order to justify the effort they have made..
and therein lie resonances with Laurens van der Post's
          "What we do to others, we in fact do to ourselves" ....
Yes, and what we are to others, we are to ourselves

and my thoughts again return to trust;
          not trusting because you want to trust
          not trusting because you have decided to trust
           but because you do..
like believing
not because I want to believe
        or have decided so to do
        but because I know...
        because I am in touch with that reality
       that allows me to say
       Oh so deeply within
             yes, that is  the way it is
                  that is the way I am
          that trust
                      that love
                                 that letting go

          is as part of me, as the not-felt beating of my heart
                  as the unsensed biological processes within my cells
                      as the very life I have:

          so that what I am
          is the manifestation of that process of interaction,
          of all the dimensions
          and the alchemy of its wholeness
          which overflows as a life energy          
                                 of exuberance,
                                            a zest,
                      that tumbles forth as enthusiasm
          and yet rests ever deeper as soulfulness

soulfulness which in itself
is my resonance with all things...
          not with their components,
but with the process of their being
not their resonance with my own inner and outer selves
or my thoughts and feelings
but with my own essential being;
          with the I am
               with the we are
that takes us beyond ourselves
           and the definitions and understandings
                      we have concocted with our minds...

beyond the moment we define with date and time
beyond the place we define with geographic meridian
beyond the scenarios we define with intention, volition
and thoughtful consideration
of what we think we have decided to be

yes, deeply beyond
to that flow of being...
not just in touch with dimensions beyond these definitions,
but being within the process of their being,
their wholeness and their evolving oneness,
becoming the resonance of the parts
that draws all into that infinite harmony,
          that infinite connectedness

it is that Tavener again, and the wind in the pines...
their music goes right through me,
(into my very bones and then far beyond)
                      taking me with them
                                 every time!!

Oh hallelujah
          how the words fail
I suddenly want to sing this soul harmony
          but then I let go
and let it be what it  is

and be profoundly thankful
for the privilege of knowing in this way

                      Oh thank you,   thank you





yet somehow there is more to write;

about that other knowing;

that what I feel as I listen…

as I think, and become part of the music I hear,

is the life given to this moment

by a composers grasp of his reality

and its transformation to notes on a page..

by musicians response to composers notes…

through the life given to each instrument by their makers..


and more.., 

it includes the life given to the moment

by those who worked in the electronics factory-

those            who made the disc-

                       who invented the technology-

those who administered the orchestra-

                      who nurtured and loved the actors in this incredible drama

their mothers, their fathers, their teachers;

those who built the buildings,

                       who generate the electricity

to power the mechanisms that at this very moment,

this physical point in time,

bring all these together to add life to this moment of mine.


all this life added by so many

to a piece of music,

heard anew within this deeper being


o vast panorama of people

who, by living their lives

contribute to an epic

of truly infinite proportions

that makes this moment most full

and so very infinite


another verse,

as content becomes the process;

not just the vibration of a cello string resonating with my soul

but the bringing together of

           composer’s being

           cellist, conductor and other players;

           sound engineers’ efforts;

           the theme of Mary’s protecting veil,

           and even those who initiated the story so many centuries ago…

together with my own soul

           components which now are all immeasurably changed

because they have taken on new life this very moment

                       new dimensions of their own being

           living each now with the newness created, no, realised,

at this time one Sunday morning, beneath the pines..

           components now becoming more infinite

           than they had ever been before,

           part of the beyondness of all moments;


and how wonderful that composer, cellist and all the others

know not from where this added value has been achieved this day…



           and Oh my God

Who can know the added value

being realised this very moment

in so many ways

by our own contributions

to such processes…



                                  and tomorrow

Who knows what is happening now to the processes

           initiated by myriads of small actions..

                       a word here; a hug

a moment given fully to another to allow them to share their music, their poem;

another heard and understood

connections made between others, a book shared; a token given..

what life abounds as these small changes continue to resonate, reverberate and multiply

and share the life

           that we, until know presumed

was confined to that moment when it happened…

           What an incredibly rich harmony

           of the most profound proportions

                       what infinity

                       what sanctity

                                  is this vast universe of interaction

                                  enriching all those souls and all those lives

and for me, a new dimension of knowing

another part of my being

another of those infinite number

of hidden dimensions glimpsed,

           appreciated and now,




           and all the time

                       the wind continues to move the pines

                                  their branches dancing the music

           as if in celebration

of one souls drawing together

           so many threads and themes

                       in testimony to

                                  the profoundness

                                             of being alive

                                                         in this way…


                                   on a windy day in Chataigneriaz,       

 listening to “The Protecting Veil” by John Tavener                 june 1994



it does happen in reverse,

so these pines and their protecting veil showed me last week-end

when I was in the forest of deciduous pines

that cloaks the lotschen-tal,

yellow in their autumn magnificence,

alight with the sunshine of one of autumns most beautiful days:


and it was that music I could hear, those cello chords

which had previously connected me with pines,

the pines now evoking the music

rather than the other way round…


it was that music again

in harmony with the glacial streams and gurgling springs

resonance at the physical level with trekking in Nepal

Namaste, and the same feelings and sensations

high in this glacial valley;

a reminder of this forest’s enveloping connectedness,

the intertwining of the trees themselves,

involving we three who walked that day amongst them


we pause to eat, drink and take in the view;

a bird circles to see if we will have crumbs to leave…

we do and are rewarded by the most gracious flight;

to and fro across the vista before us,

like the cellist’s bow across the strings

each of us a string to now vibrate with deep music

and become the harmony of this day and this place…


nearby, some other walkers light a fire

and we are conscious immediately of those four elements

fire, earth, air and water;

and our completeness…

more reminders and connections..

such fullness,

such joy

that I must take deep breaths of the mountain air

in order not to explode


like a cathedral, Astrid said,

once again looking up

through the translucent yellow of those sunlit columns,

luminous larches framing, as if in stained glass,

here a peak of pristine white against a vivid blue vault,

there a glimpse of distant mountains,

blue in the afternoon light,

the more so because of their yellow frame..


           the bird soars above and sweeps

           across the colours of fall in the high valley;

           Leslie says it is like a Japanese painting

           that collage of muted colours;

           and again the bird swings by as a spirit freed

           taking ours with it

           and that becomes the motion of our own souls

           throughout the afternoons’ descent

           within our conifer cathedral


           yellow of sunlight through autumn needles,

           frames the blue of the distant range in one direction,

           the white of the mountains snow in another…

           and above the most brilliant blue of a most autumn sky

           against which the blackest of black birds soars

           and takes us with him beyond ourselves and this moment


           soaring and wheeling in joyous ecstasy

           we were the bird in flight…

           we are the spirits soaring,

           inward, onward,  and outward… 


and as I listen to the music of “The Protecting Veil”

on our return home,

the music draws it all together

immersing me in that oneness

          of experience and spiritual being,

the holiness of daily life

within the sacrament of living,

never again to be the same…

17 October 1994, after a weekend in the Lotschental valley, Valais, Switzerland

7 Samundra Tar , Nepal, November 1998

Sunday 30th November was a wonderful day. Although only two nights away and a long walk up a valley to be ‘chief guest’ at the inauguration of an Eye camp on the day between, it felt as if I had been away for a week or more.

Patricia Brice our WHO Admin and Programme Officer, who is about to be re-assigned to Geneva, had a lunch at her place for all the WHO staff on Saturday. So we left from there, Sailesh Upadhayay, Basanta Khadka and I, with Narayan Sapkota as our driver, for the 4 hour drive to Aprha Bazaar. Our route took us out of the Kathmandu valley towards Trisuli Bazaar. The long descent from the valley rim gave us constant views of Ganesh Himal, Langtang and other high peaks, especially beautiful in the clear afternoon light and sunset. We turned off the main road a short while after crossing the big river at the end of the long descent from Karkani, and continued for a further hour of very rough road, including a long river crossing, by which time it was quite dark.

Overnight in a simple lodge:  Breakfast at 6.30 of good nepali chia, omelet and channa dahl, and we set out on foot across a long suspension bridge for an exhilarating walk into the sunrise and the morning hills; along the now empty rice terraces; the stacking  of the straw still going on in many places; lots of people carrying huge bundles of straw and porters with loads to remind us we were now beyond the road-reach. On the way we meet the five porters who had carried the equipment for the eye camp. They complained about not reaching the village until 9 pm previous evening and that, because of the tigers and the late hour of their arrival, they thought they should be paid more money.

Beautiful vistas, lovely houses, noble new stone ones, more worn but very lived in farm houses with their very Nepali verandahs; I just love the patterns made by the fields we see below us as we traverse a wide hillside, the river far below; hamlets to be passed through, suspension bridges to be crossed.  Namaste! The greeting is returned. Namaste. We overtake a man taking his mother to the eye camp. He is 55 and his mother ‘over 70’. They have walked already for 4 hours by the time we meet them. We pause for a drink, later to buy bananas and then at a shop to take yogurt.

We arrive in the town of Samundra Tar by 10.45. They have already registered at least 100 patients.

The screening is in full swing in the sub-health post building. The doctor is Rishi Kant Adhikari, whom I discovered is the brother of the man from whom we rent our house in Kathmandu.  In another building they are scrubbing one room for the cataract operations and getting the adjacent room set up for preparation. An adjacent hall is being set up with makeshift straw mattresses for the overnight stays the people will need.

The patients for surgery are lining up outside, seated on the ground in the bright sunshine, having their blood pressures taken. What an absolutely marvellous collection of wonderful older faces. What stories they must have to tell.

 The team consists of the one doctor, 3 nurses, one Ophthalmic Assistant and 3 helpers. Basanta, who came up with us, is a WHO staff member with the Prevention of Blindness Programme. He immediately busied himself with assisting in the ‘setting up’ process. He stayed on when we returned to Kathmandu. The camp started on the Sunday morning, the team having arrived the evening before, and continued until Thursday. The setting up and initial screening proceeded at the same time, which is what we arrived to see. They screened until 1.30 p.m., and then started the first 10 or so cataract operations. 450 people were examined and 59 had cataracts removed during the five days of the camp. 9 other eye operation were also done. For the cataracts, they are not yet using Intra Ocular Lenses, which are now produced in Nepal at the Tilganga Eye Centre to EC and ISO 9000 standards. I was told that this is because the cost is still too high for the villagers in these areas and the techniques for inserting them in a camp setting are not yet mastered by all the ophthalmic surgeons. So the cataracts are removed, and then aphakic glasses fitted after three days.

There was an ‘ inauguration’ at 1.00 p.m., at which I was the “chief guest”. It clearly meant a lot to the local organizers and volunteers that we had walked up to their village for the ceremony.

Eye camps and such things are clearly all about people: Volunteers, the team of eye care professionals, the supporters, the patients and those who carry or lead them in from surrounding villages and potential patients.

The camp was organized by the local Lions Club. They have only 20 members and club has been established for just over a year. They held a ‘dental camp’ last year.  And now the eye camp. They raised funds raised locally to cover the local costs (publicity, food and accommodation for the patients).  WHO covered the cost of the team from the Nepal Eye Hospital. What a great example of a community effort. I said so in my brief speech, drawing attention to WHO’s motto of Health for all the people and health by all the people.

 The Lions club volunteers were bright and energetic young men. One  accompanied us up to the village and another went with us as we returned to Aprha Bazaar immediately after the inauguration ceremony. That walk was also wonderful, down into the evening light, with the sun setting in front of us as we neared our destination.

Ishwar, one of the Lions club volunteers came down with us. He is a high school teacher and had taken leave for a couple of days of Social Service. He was going to Aprha bazaar to follow up the mobilization of people for the camp. He took us to see his school, which was about half way down. We met other teachers and talked briefly with them. We also had some chia. How good that sweet milky tea is when you are walking.  Instant energy!  For security reasons, we were also accompanied on the first part of the trip back by two special police. They were, as our sons would say, two really ‘hard’ men. However one feels safe with them. “Hard” as they were, theirs was a really gentle farewell at the point they had deemed it was safe for us to go on without them. They say there are Maoists around (there is a so called ‘people’s war’ smoldering away in the hills), and that an office of Save the Children Fund (US) had been torched by them two nights earlier.

By the end of the walk, my legs were a bit wobbly, and later I had some muscle cramps. It had been a long time since I have walked 7 hours and more in one day. However with a meal and a good sleep I felt fine. It had been a great day.

 On the following morning we day we left before 7 a.m. for Kathmandu and arrived back at about 10.30. The road up from the Trisuli Valley is spectacular, a long ascent with wonderful mountain views.  I went straight home, had a shower and some fruit and yogurt , and off to the office for some appointments and a big National Immunisation Day  Steering Committee meeting with the Prime Minister. With World Aids day the following day, a National Immunization Day for Polio a week later, with an early morning rally to promote the NID, visits from HQ and Regional Office staff, a Safe motherhood coordinating committee and other appointments in between, it was indeed a full week. The following weekend saw the Prime Minister administering the ceremonial first drops at an event at 8.30 a.m. on Sunday. Then at midday I set out by car for Hetauda (4 hours drive) with three of our WHO office staff, to carry out supervision in one of the Terrai districts on the following day, Monday 7th, first of this round of the National Immunization Days. Nearly all the WHO staff members were also be out in the field during the day itself. It is a wonderful thing to see communities mobilizing themselves, and gaining visible pleasure for achieving high coverage. They know they have because as part of their preparations they visit all households in the area and count whom they have to reach.  That is another story.

  1. On the Road in India

A short drive to India; from Kathmandu to Delhi and Jaipur and back, November 1997 

In November 1997, we spent just over two weeks in India. As the World Health Organisation (WHO)  Representative in Nepal, I was to attend the annual meeting of the WHO Country Representatives of the South East Asian Region in the WHO Regional Office in New Delhi, India.  Leslie and I decided to drive ourselves there from Kathmandu in our own vehicle. We took three days for the trip there and an extra three days for the return, so that we could have a day in Jaipur. What a wonderful trip we had. I would never have believed that driving through the North of India could have been such a colourful and enjoyable adventure.


It proved to be a veritable feast for the eyes and all the other senses.. (which we unashamedly enriched with our own music tapes on the car stereo, Mozart in the morning and Loreena McKennit or Dave Matthews later in the day;  )


We had such wonderful contact with our fellow travellers and those through whose towns and villages we passed. People were so helpful and always willing to give us direction when the signposts we needed were not there.


So many images remain vivid in my mind, none the least of which was Leslie’s comment on our return that it had been a highlight of her life. Wow.  Now that is a privilege, to have been part of that. 

  • morning mists cut by shafts of sunlight as we drive through long arcades of trees that meet above the road like the nave of a gothic cathedral, such a nave as reaches for so many kilometres, in fact for days- and takes us in all directions; (He was deemed to be a good king who planted trees along the ancient highways of India, because he gave shade to the travellers, who in those days travelled by foot. …and so the most wonderful tunnels of trees hold the road on which we drive, giving perspective to the passing scene),
  • the sunlight on the yellow of the flowering fields of mustard .. these extend from the plains right to the foothills of the Himalaya.. and are with us for days;
  • the colour and constant variety of the traffic on the roads on which we drive;


 It is the amazing array of people that gives it colour… and the colours are as if put together by an artist :

  • a tractor towing a blue trailer full of elderly Sikhs, all in blue, with silvery blue beards; another two Sikhs, red turbaned on a red motor cycle; a bullock cart covered with men and women all dressed in variations of orange;
  • bright eyed and scrubbed clean children on their way to school, filling to overflowing a rickshaw here, a horse drawn tonga or an ox cart there;
  • boys on top of a load of bricks on a large truck..
  • ladies in their multiplicity of colours packed into the back of a jeep, men standing across the back of another, confident enough of their hold on life to return our wave.. so many people images and they all acknowledge us with a wave of a gracious hand or a broad teethy smile;
  • images of the glistening bodies of small boys by a pump having been washed, of people fishing or working in the fields; of a small boy languishing on the back of one of the herd of water buffaloes he is watching over;
  • the wonderful colour and grace of the women, particularly in Rajastan and the western part of Nepal.. the sunlight making translucent their wonderful scarves or saris, the wind catches them to display more of their colour, their colour contrasting with whatever background is there.. the new green of young crops, the brown of ploughed field, the rich collage of colour of the village marketplaces;
  • the grace with which they carry things on their heads, bundles or their round clay water pots, sometimes two pots at a time, one on top of the other;


 The variety is the traffic itself, from hand wound wheel chair to combine harvester,  on roads that on the whole were wide and in very good condition, although very crowded at times. We saw the whole range… people on foot, people with their sheep, their goats or their cattle, the man with a performing bear, a group with their camels; Elephants too, especially on the road between Jaipur and Amber; especially vivid are the images of the fine buck that stood on the road, splendid in the morning light, in Bardia national park in Nepal,  the sunlight on the early morning monkeys in Rajastan and what could only be described as a conference of the monkeys on the road through Sariska National Park near Alwar. There were hundreds of bicycles, often hung with several metal milk cans. We commented how many bicycles are ridden by girls and women these days.. 

There were motor scooters, motor bikes, often carrying a whole family; little three wheelers stuffed full of people, or even fuller of produce; the bicycle rickshaw loaded with the huge balls of deep red and beige wool in Amber,  a line of bicycle rickshaws piled high with schoolchildren on their way home from school;  the large three wheelers, often at a crazy angle as they list to the left with an overflow of passengers who hang on the outside.. small minibuses that do the same, cars.. the small Maruti-Suzuki cars that buzz in and out of the trucks like flies, the three white ones overtaking  each other at the same time; the familiar Ambassadors,  the many buses and the hundreds of Tata trucks, often overloaded, lurching from side to side with the bumps in the road, with the sad scenes of those that fell.. lying on their side or on their backs with all four wheels in the air, like elephants who have done their duty and given up.. and amongst all of these the innumerable wagons, drawn by bullocks in the north, camels in Rajastan and all over by horses; loaded with people, with sugar cane  on the way to the mill, with huge huge canvas enclosures of grain, with high piles of straw, or empty of all but the driver who sleeps in the confidence that his faithful beast knows the way home. 


The variety comes also from the fact that not all the traffic is on their left side of their road, even when there is a divided road.


        -and those graceful hand movements that emanate from the cabins of the trucks that bid us pass, or counsel us to remain where we are; such fine and graceful movements, such as those we more usually see from the conductor of an orchestra.


We saw vehicles get stuck as enormous loads tried to pass through a space already occupied by another enormous load, like enormous sumo wrestlers locked in a hold; we learned to be Indian and dart to the very of  the edge of the road to get around such events or when two truck drivers passing from opposite directions stopped for a chat; we learned that the truck is king, and the larger the load the more respect we would give. Not often did we have to almost get off the road to let one pass. We did learn the language of the drivers and found that it does make sense and that on the whole they are most helpful. The main hazard with this language is the interpretation of the flashing right direction indicator of a bus or truck, which can mean that the road ahead is clear to pass, or that another truck is approaching from the opposite direction with its right indicator flashing, or, less often, it seems,  that the truck is actually about to turn right. We were constantly amused by the workshop that appears around a broken down truck, which sits exactly where it came to a halt, and is repaired where it stands, even if that happens to be in the middle of the road. Driving after dark is the most hazardous, with unlit vehicles or ox carts crawling along the edge of the road, difficult to see when there are lights from oncoming vehicles. So we planned not to be driving at that  time.


-and the places.. buildings that delighted us because of their shape or colour, because of the materials with which they are built or their decorations, or because of their grandeur and beauty, their columns and  shapes, arches that frame; A most rich tapestry of form and light..  Palaces in Jaipur, Amber and Deeg, and the farms and villages along the way.


and then there was some shopping.. wonderful things to see and feel, especially the textiles and handicrafts, and each merchant a delight to interact with…  and so on. Travelling in our own car eliminated any barrier to buying heavy or bulky items, so there are wooden bowls from “the Shop” in Connaught Place, Delhi, puppets and Blue Pottery from Jaipur and pieces of fabric from all over. So the Christmas shopping is done. Leslie was able to see the National Museum in Delhi and the Handicraft Museum which they say is one of the best of its kind and with which she was absolutely delighted.


The places in which we stayed will also remain memorable, especially the most elegantly renovated Chomu Haveli, one of the oldest royal residences in Jaipur, for two months now operating as the Raj Palace Hotel. Not like a hotel at all, no bustling lobby filled with shops and tourists, but a cool green lawned forecourt in which we took tea, tastefully decorated bedrooms and a most elegant dining room, with a musician to accompany breakfast as we looked out to the hills and one of the forts that look down on Jaipur.  As well as our two nights in Jaipur, we over-nighted twice in Nepalganj in Nepal, and in Naini Tal and Bareilly in India, and stayed with our good friends the Abeykoons in Delhi.


Our pattern when on the road was to start early, to have with us a thermos of hot water and things with which to make tea or coffee for picnics along the way (our “survival kit now has a small electric jug and the stainless steel thermos that has been part of our travels over the last 20 years), and to finish the days drive early enough for tea in the garden of the overnight stop, which, of course required a hotel with such a facility. So the memories we also have are of some splendid picnic sites, by rivers, or pulled off the road by the edge of a farmer’s field, in the cool depth of a mango orchard, or on a hill overlooking Jaipur. Of course, it was tea on our roof

terrace when we reached home at the end of the 2900 km round trip. We found our white Land Rover Discovery to be a most comfortable chariot and the only trouble we had was one puncture. It was useful, but not necessary to have 4 WD while driving through the seven or so rivers in the west of Nepal where the final bridges on the east-west highway are still to be completed.


One special footnote to this trip is that at the same time 25 years previously, Leslie and I toured Greece, Turkey and Italy, also in a white car, a journey which included our marriage at the end of 1972.  In fact, coinciding with our wonderful day of shopping and wandering through rich and ancient palaces in Jaipur on November 15 1997,  we had 25 years earlier, on that very day, been in Istanbul and had gone to the bazaar and bought our wedding rings and the two rugs that we have in our bedroom.


Another interesting footnote is that our route from Kathmandu to Delhi followed the route of that segment of the recent Peking to Paris Veteran Car rally, which passed through here at the end of September. We had gone out on the road that comes in from Tibet to watch these amazing old cars come into Kathmandu, and commented we would love to do something like that. In a way we now were, as we followed their path. However, we were glad we were not driving an MGB or a Morris Minor through those rivers in Western Nepal.


It was a great adventure, and we are pleased we were not put off by all those who doubted the sanity of such a trip.


We have shown ourselves that we can still be travelling and enjoying adventure 25 years on and have confirmed that the colour of our world is its people.



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s