Saluting an Elephant

One

On a sunny New Year’s Day, I set out for my daily constitutional into the forests surrounding Mount Kenya. As usual, I ended up walking father than intended. You see, my legs have their own agenda. Once they start going, they need to do their thing. It’s like there’s a lag between when my brain tells them to turn around and when they accept the message.

Inevitably when I wander off like this, I get a bit lost. But I’ve spent so many hours getting lost and found that I wasn’t really worried. I had a general sense that I was headed in the right direction. The birdsong keeping me company. As I made my way back through the wilderness, a sharp pain shot through my foot. I pulled off my shoe to find an acacia thorn lodged in my sole. I tried to pry it out but it splintered in two, a piece buried somewhere in the rubber.

I found and followed a meandering path that led to the smallest of clearings. Catching my breath, it took a moment to spot where the tread continued. When I finally spied a mud track snaking through the brush, I lumbered forward, snapping the twigs and branches that closed in on my ankles and elbows. And that’s when I heard a hasty rustle hidden among the trees.

My immediate thought was that there was someone else nearby, though I rarely see anyone on my walks. Occasionally there are women carrying loads of firewood on their backs, a singular strap across the crown of their heads bearing the brunt of the weight, their arms arched backwards to hold on to ropes. There are shepherds that bring their cows and sheep to graze. But the cows and sheep wear bells around their necks and you can easily hear them jangling from a distance. They don’t venture into dense bush, preferring wider tracks.

I carefully stepped closer. Again, the crashing of branches shattered the silence, sending a charged current through the air. It was clear by the sheer force and velocity that no human could cut through thick jungle like that. I took flight.  

I had no idea where I was going but something told me to get the hell out of there. This time my legs got the message promptly. After a wild scramble, I tried to calm down. There was no sense in really getting lost. A part of me questioned what even just happened. Maybe it was wishful thinking that I had come across an ellie. I doubled back and soon found myself again at that mirage of a path plunging into the wood. Now my senses were on high alert.

I crept along the trail and, and as if sensing my presence, another boom of branches rang out. I crouched low, peering into that mosaic of dark green and earthen brown. What I think I saw looking back at me were two long, sullen eyes, those inimitable flaps, and a fine gray trunk. I didn’t wait any longer to make sure I got it right. I bolted. Again.

When I reached another clearing, I frantically called Keith, a resident forest expert. He told me to head to open space. I stumbled through the bush, the acacia thorn reasserting itself every few steps. Eventually I made it out to the spacious cattle path. I trudged home exhausted and bewildered, in desperate need of water, trying to make sense of what I was feeling. The current still clinging to me.

The next morning, I got a text from a friend who had just come across relatively fresh elephant dung in the same patch of forest. I felt vindicated. Especially since I knew I had my doubters. The night before Roxanne told me, “I don’t think it was an elephant you saw. They’re so quiet. They could be right next to you and you wouldn’t even know.”

Even that morning Keith had messaged to let me know that the folks who forage for firewood said there was no elephant yesterday. He suggested maybe it was a buffalo or waterbuck. But here was fresh dung confirming my encounter. My joy overflowing.        

I wrote the episode down in my journal and set off, hopping over the Karichota stream, ducking beneath the elephant wire. Within a few minutes I came across a stinking mountain of evidence. This one was fresh-fresh, buzzing with flies. I couldn’t help but marvel at its size. Now I’m no expert – just a worshiper of fat layers of moss – and figured the mound in front of me was from the day before, further proof of my run-in.

I walked on for a few more minutes when I heard that unmistakable rustle. I slowed down, taking each step deliberately, only to look up, awestruck. This time there was no question.

I stood there entranced for almost a minute. My feet planted amongst all the others in the forest. While my eyes remained transfixed, my ears were alert to a shuffling in the jungle beside me. I was acutely aware that I was not alone. Almost on cue, the hidden one began trumpeting. Another language I couldn’t follow. I had no idea how far or close it was. And I didn’t stick around to find out.

Two

Not gonna lie: I was shook. Like, there were a few moments where I felt unprecedented panic. I don’t know if it’s something primal that takes over. But before I had time to process the situation, I was running with no idea or care for where I was going. My scattered steps burdened with the thought that a tusker may be on my heels.

Maybe its instinctual, some component of your body or brain that recognizes that you’re in the presence of a wild animal. Your heartbeat sound like sasquatch feet. What’s terrifying is that with such little visibility, even when running away, you’re aware of the possibility that you may stumble upon one around the next turn.

Ever since we arrived at the foothills of Mount Kenya, the forest has been a refuge. Over the past month I’ve mapped the trails and trees that inhabit this space, imprinting the topography on my brain and improving my shaky sense of direction. I’ve learned the names of a few birds and how to identify many of the trees that define the landscape: lavish podo dripping with lichen, lotus-leafed water-berry, twisting olive, unfurling cape chestnut, stoic cedar, and remarkable strangler fig – or mugomo – which “holds a kaleidoscope of meanings within Kikuyu cosmology” serving as “a conduit between people and god, binding humanity and nature, manifesting coexistence and connectivity, and representing power, life, and fertility.”

Between the trees and the babbling Burguret river, the forest is teeming. It’s always a pleasure to be hailed by the Colobus monkeys. Their white fluffy tails looking like puffs of cotton candy hanging from the canopy. They jump – all four limbs outstretched – with arboreal expertise. At night the hyrax shriek. By the sounds of it recording their latest screamo album in the alfresco studio. (Fun fact: hyraxes, despite looking like gophers, are thought to be one of the closest living relatives to elephants.)

But there’s something about elephants that invokes a wondrous curiosity. I can’t say I’m adept or know much more than the basics: Their outstanding memory. A marathon gestational period. The tender way they mourn their dead. I’m into it, though. So much so that a couple months ago I insisted we got to Amboseli – the national park known for its elephant population. While friends and strangers alike suggested Maasai Mara or Tsavo for a wider array of wildlife, I was there for the ellies. Under the gaze of Kilimanjaro, we beamed as they strode through the savannah.

When we shifted to the outskirts of Nanyuki, I joked that I would love to see elephants out here in the forest. I was surprised by how serious the responses were:

“Trust me, you don’t want to see an elephant in the bush.”

“Elephants are faster than human beings – you don’t want to contend with them.”

“There are people who have encountered them that are seriously traumatized.”

I keep coming back to the almost primitive fear I felt. Initially, there was a part of me that was mad I didn’t stick around longer to see what was really good. But then again, I was on their home turf. It was an away game for me, so to speak.  

It’s taken me a few days, but I get it. While I faithfully continue my daily pilgrimage, I’m unable to get so easily lost in my thoughts. Now any scurry through the understory or flutter of wings snaps my neck around. There are times when I am surrounded on all sides by shades of dark green and I feel the electricity return.

And I have to admit, maybe all those warnings served their purpose.

Three

Human-wildlife conflicts are intensifying as stressors on natural habitats increase from agricultural and industrial activities. The climate crisis has exacerbated these conflicts as competition over land, food, and water grows. Hundreds of people are killed each year by elephants, alone. In response to the destruction of crops and property, and threats to food security and livelihoods, wildlife is killed in retaliation.

As human-wildlife conflict mitigation strategies are considered, especially in and around conservation areas, local communities should be part of the process of developing context-specific solutions. The FAO states that involving local communities in the management of, and benefits derived from, conservation areas, is crucial to addressing human-wildlife conflicts.

Yet too often local communities are marginalized bystanders in the big business of conservation. While tourism from conservation efforts generate huge revenue, local – often Indigenous – communities face dispossession, violence, and eviction. Recent research finds that the creation of protected areas and national parks continues to drive widespread human rights violations. This model of fortress conservation, based on the belief that biodiversity must be kept in isolation, absent from humans, should be replaced with community-led efforts rooted in an understanding of the critical role communities can – and in many instances already do – play in forest and wildlife protection.

Four

I dip below the elephant wire and sink to my knees. Now that I’m back on familiar ground, I shake my head in wonder before sending my offerings up in a cloud.

I lean back against an ancient trunk and listen. Each day the forest reveals a little bit more. I’ve learned to accept the advice embossed in cyphers of moss and lichen. They are continually dispelling self-doubt and planting seeds of imagination, reminding me that there is enchantment in this world.

After all, the natural world is the original inspiration for all arts and crafts, sound and color. Western-centric, Enlightenment thought has succeeded in deceiving us to believe that the key to that ill-defined goal of progress is humans’ domination over nature. As if human beings are somehow divorced from the world we inhabit. As if our fate is separate from the ancestors that inhabit the forests, rivers, and streams. The frightening results of such thinking are now being felt with intensifying tremors all around us.

Follow the signs only you see. Trust that they’ll take you where you need. Pay respects to the interconnected webs of life.

Receive elephant blessings.

Return of the Himalaya

All I want to do is walk. Any chance I get, I take off. It doesn’t necessarily help that six seven hours a day are spent bumping around in a bus or in the back of a jeep. We ride parallel to rushing rivers that are voraciously being dammed. Beside, the headquarters of hydro and cement companies sprawl. It isn’t long before the asphalt disappears and gives way to more humble tracks upon which to tread. We slowly climb up and eventually back down lush green hills. And while the winding dirt roads mean travelling at the snail’s pace, it still feels like I’m going too fast.

My eyes try as best they can to feast on my surroundings, but more often than not they are fixed upwards, glued to snowcapped peaks. I can’t help it. There is something about those sharp, jagged edges that arrest, keeping me in awe, aware of my size. When they move out of view, I take in the breadth of the landscape. Another world defined by a direct relationship with the land comes into focus. As soon as we stop for tea or reach our destination in Kinnaur, in Kullu, in Mandi, my legs take over. Every free moment I can steal away, I want to take in these hills and streams and staircase villages.

So every evening after heated discussions on community forest rights, I leave my new activist friends behind and begin to wander. It’s only on my own two feet that I feel like I can move slowly enough to feel everything that this place stirs inside. My mind is engaged in constant conversation with itself; I am only a bystander at this point, quietly listening to the back and forth banter inside my head.

Climbing up worn pathways, I quickly get lost trying to find my way to an arbitrarily picked destination way above where I stand – a temple, an orchard, a waterfall. Amused villagers ask where I am going and I excitedly reply that I’m simply going for a walk. It’s not long before I am again sitting down with strangers, drinking tumbler after tumbler of sweet pahadi chai.

I know these moments mean more because of those summers I spent as a kid exploring a similar setting in Kangra. Sent to my Nanaji and Nanima’s house, the monsoon welcomed me.  I know it’s because of the memories that come back from that year in Kumaon that makes it all the more meaningful. And now, with a few more years on me and a (relatively) more stable head on these shoulders, I keep my ears open, attuned to the secrets being whispered.

I no longer try to compartmentalize or label the feelings that arise. Rural life with all its beauty, generosity, and hardships stands directly in front of me. Not asking for anything, yet still demanding all of my attention.  The smell of wood-fed fires brings waves of nostalgia and inspiration that wash over me, making it all so dangerously easy to romanticize. Standing atop of a world that at once seems familiar, and yet one I know I cannot claim to fully understand.  It is here I recognize there is too much upon the hills and below the surface that I am unable to put into words.

But just as is with every return to the Himalaya, internally there is work being done. Inside, I can only hope my heart is being soaked, and wrung, and washed anew. That somewhere, though I cannot see it – only vaguely feel it – there is a realignment taking place.

The Air Up There

The air up there is thin. Struggling to reach 15,000 feet, my heart rapidly knocks against my chest, rattling my ribs and threatening to smash through my sternum. The dry climate reflects itself in the jagged brown mountains that stare all-knowingly. Rising up to meet the clouds they are only dwarfed by even sharper edges – snowcapped and silent – towering above. At these heights the oxygen is increasingly scarce. And the air, parched and crisp is poised to pierce through any ego.

Bouncing around the backseat of a van, the ceremonial is passed to me as we make our way along winding roads to the departure point. My handlers are young, hip Ladakhis, continuously on their hustle to make the most from the steady flow of the tourist season. These months bring the height of their income; for the rest of the year the region is largely cut off and buried in snow. Eyes glued to the other side of the window, at any given point the mountains encompass us circling 360 degrees of the horizon.

My companions are two 22 year olds. Another NRI who has also come to this corner of Kashmir on vacation, and our guide, a local college student whose summer climbing supplements his tuition fees. Before we set out, we sit with our handlers at a makeshift tea stall planted at the foot of a small stream. Once more the ceremonial is passed around, this time with the first of many bowls of Maggi which will mark the journey through high mountain passes. The masala stings my already weathered, chapped lips nearly 12,000 feet above sea level.

All week I’ve prided myself on my ability to adjust to the pahadi culture and high altitude. In the cutest Hindi imaginable, I repeat, “Chalne ke adat hai pechle janum se.” My certainty brings laughter and skepticism from my new friends. And with the final slurps we are off – to conquer or be conquered by the Himalayas.

Our first day is four hours of steady climbing. By early evening we reach “base camp” – a series of tents set to house wandering tourists, and the locals accompanying their adventure tourism. It seems as if this site is a staple of the trekking economy. Unable to keep my eyes off the imposing view of Stok Kangri, I begin to meet my fellow travelers.

There is the French physiotherapist who has quit his job to wander India for the next six months. He has taken to Buddhist philosophy and provides surprisingly good advice on watching where impulses and desires come from. His girlfriend is off practicing yoga poses. In full Surya Namaskar, she intermittently appears prostrating in front of the Himalaya. Soon enough they both wander off amidst some boulders to meditate.

There’s also the Tibetan immigrant who has made India his home. Over the subsequent hours, accompanied by several glasses of rum, he tells his incredible story. After fleeing Chinese occupation of Tibet, he made his way to Nepal where he climbed with the Sherpas for nearly a decade.  Following his time in Nepal, he came to India and has subsequently travelled the subcontinent north to south, east to west, even venturing out to remote islands. Now, Ladakh is home where he has become a self-made anthropologist, geologist, and historian of sorts. Scrolling through his digital camera he explains how he wants to bring scientists to see the isolated parts of the region he has explored, where he has discovered fossilized remains, as well as documented local traditions and practices.

At night, the stars shine ferociously. Like a million tiny specks of silt burning through the sky transmitting the Light we are searching for.  In between those aerial fires are wisps of the Milky Way, like curling smoke upon a nocturnal canvas.  At the rooftop of the world, the villages are few and far between to cause any type of light pollution. Once again I tilt my head backwards as I brush my teeth, inhaling starlight.

All was well that night, that is, until that sudden 4 am wake up. You know the one where you get up with a start and sense of purpose. Unzipping the double layers of my tent, I quickly zigzag between the dozen or so encampments sprawled across the cold ground. I shine my flashlight up the hill, illuminating my destination. The makeshift structure is three walls of neatly stacked, level, rounded stone. I dart around to the open face to gratefully find smooth ground with a single hole in the center.

***

I swear I died at least twice that day.  With nothing left in my system, the lack of oxygen became even more noticeable along the steep hike. Over two hours of incline, I was forced to stop literally every twenty steps. My heartbeat – pounding – ricocheted off my eardrums making each lumbering step thunder in my head.  Sucking wind, I bargain: if the sins and substance abuse of the past years can be released through my pores then this is all worth it.

My pride gets me through, refusing the assistance of any man or pony. Atop the Ganda La Pass, prayer flags flutter in the cold wind. Below, the valley is illuminated by the still rising morning sun. The Himalayas stand stoically, asserting their stature, ignoring our minute achievement. Besides me, a group of American college students pull out a bottle of Old Monk to celebrate the ascent. I decline as shots are taken of the sweet-syrupy rum to mark the occasion. And then down we go.

The remainder of the day is spent walking through the stark and beautiful landscape. Jumping through streams, walking into narrow rock corridors, and marveling at the majesty.  After a few hours, I lodge my protest at taking a step further while the sun is at its highest. Finding a collection of bushes I drop down, immediately falling asleep for the next hour.

By evening we reach the village that will be home for the night. The local monastery stands on top of a small hill and we once again climb up to pay our respects. In Ladakh, the cultural and religious dynamics are defined by Tibetan Buddhism, which has been predominant for well over a thousand years.  Our home-cooked dinner is momos stuffed with local vegetables – the antidote needed for deep sleep.

Returning down through the evolving landscape brings us face to face with the dust and concrete of new construction. Roads and bridges are slowly coming to connect the trekking routes and villages that are becoming popular. Reaching the River, I jump in a raft alongside scores of Israeli, European, and Indian tourists as we battle rapids to where the Zanskar meets the Indus. Jutting up to kiss the sky are the brown and unmoving mountains, keeping steady, watching all along. 

Secrets of the Himalaya

It was all a dream. I was back; back at the foothills of the Himalayas, many moons since that first year when the lens shifted and the whole world began to look a little different. Walking like my legs never forgot I took each hill in stride, plucking peaches, apples, and grapes fresh off of trees and vines. I lost and found myself in mountain jungles as I made my way back, to the village that was my first home, and to the people that opened their lives to me.

From the vantage point of higher hills, smoke rises up from the houses below. The smell of burning fires and fresh gobar, the sight of warm cups of chai and familiar faces, and the sounds of animals and laughter are enough to overtake you. Everyone has jokes. And while the mountains unceasingly define the backdrop and claim the horizon, it’s about more than just the view. The purpose, dedication, and natural surroundings all add up to something that is powerful, yet not tangible.

Maybe that is the secret of the Himalaya.

Being in the presence of such natural power means going beyond what simply meets the eye. After all, what is immediately striking about mountains is their enormity. There, towering in the horizon, reminding us of forces much stronger and permanent than ourselves, lay peak after snowcapped peak, cut with sharp edges, reaffirming the meaning of earth, mud, and stone. But is it simply the sheer magnitude of mountains that move us? Or rather, is it what is inside those hills and what is inside us that meet and take us beyond the earth, mud and stone that is this body?

From such altitude, the busy streets of Babylon seem far, and all seems safe. One cannot imagine that concrete jungle as a place where we lose ourselves and become so easily distracted that we are consumed from the inside without even knowing it. That is, of course, if we do not remember secret Himalayan recipes.

That evening we sat around the wood-fed fire, in conversation and silence, once more crossing barriers of language, class and culture. The reflection and reconnection flowed in and out of me as I remembered the days when this was my home – and my classroom. Amongst people and panchayats there are always lessons to be learned about strength and bonds and struggle. Catching up on new developments of the village, discussing the never-ending work required for daily life, sharing arbitrary details of the days in between our brief time together – we added the ingredients of the night – organic vegetables, freshly-ground spices, and mutual respect and affection. They say food is love and in these parts it always tastes better.

In the morning when it was time to leave, ten year-old Jyoti walked me to the forest where I would spend the next couple hours searching for the right path back. After we began going our separate ways, she quickly turned around, and with a frown on her face she scowled, “Next time you come, you come and stay for a week, you hear me?”

How do simple words pierce organs? Why is it so easy to connect with what remains so radically different? What does it mean to melt? We want to grasp what cannot be held; we want to know for sure what we don’t understand; we want it all to make sense some day.

The questions come much easier than any answer. But I suppose some secrets are better worth keeping.

Monsoon in Four Parts

I

The fattest drops made the biggest splashes. Rolling, dark clouds creeping over the hills were the first sign. The gusts of wind followed. Every other summer or so, me and Vikram found ourselves transplanted to our grandparents’ home at the foothills of the Himalayas. Every other summer or so, in a village in Himachal Pradesh, our dreams were watered from above.

The isolated existence those few weeks brought meant constantly having to find different ways to pass the days. Buried in a family album somewhere there is a picture. There is my brother, and there am I. We are only children. In Montgomery County Recreation Department t-shirts and baggy basketball shorts, we squish mud between our toes as our education takes form through dance and laughter. There we stand soaked, smiling, and without knowing it building a relationship – with land and soil, trees and roots, mountains and sky, heaven and earth.

II

After days and weeks of unrelenting sun, what we have all been waiting for has finally come. And the sudden downpour leaves the city pacified. Not so slowly the roads turn to ponds and lakes. The brown water lagoons emerge as if they were from the soil beneath the asphalt, instead of the visible manifestations of sewage, pollution, and unsustainable living. But the monsoon’s message is lost upon us, as we continue on unaware of what the puddles are trying to relay through frantic vibrations of splashes and ripples.

The morning downpour makes Delhi’s traffic only more hectic. But no one complains. We are each lost in our own reflections as we gratefully accept the shower, simply thankful for nature’s offering.

The auto-rickshaw drivers maneuver in a dream-like state, weaving their ships across the sea. The on-lookers standing beneath awnings and gazing atop balconies stare as if they are lost in thoughts belonging to another dimension. And those rushed souls, who have forgotten their umbrellas look silly compared to those others who have also forgotten their umbrellas, or perhaps never intended on bringing them, indifferent to, or unaware of, the washing taking place.

III

In another portion of Himalaya, the precipitation never ceases. It has been weeks now. The peaches have spoiled. The landslides increased. But homecomings are well worth whatever mild inconveniences that must be incurred. Upon hilltops the entire valley glows neon green. The clouds hang in arms reach. Once more I reacquaint myself with mountain trails and unending forests, walking like my legs never forgot.

In rapidly changing villages, a new generation seeks the gains of development and progress. Land is bought and sold as hotels and summer homes sprout like specially engineered grains. But it is the people and places that taught me so much that make it all worth it. The love, and hard work, and reminder that our lives still remain dependent on a healthy relationship with the earth, shapes the form of reflection and reconnection. And as I feel humbled by it all, I know that thick jungles and fat layers of moss are worth worshipping.

IV

After the rain, after the stickiness sets in and summer passes, when seasons eventually change and the journey must continue, what will having our dreams watered by the monsoon yield? We can only hope that in some way our memories will remember: what it sounded like when our laughter splashed against stones and when the streets turned to rivers and when the village reclaimed one of its own. We can hope that these memories will continue unconsciously informing our choices and unknowingly shaping the dreams we continue to dream when the chaos and strange beauty of New York City returns.