In one of my last posts (here) I wrote about how Sir Francis Drake may have been the real first discoverer of the Pacific Northwest coast, and how this fact was likely kept under wraps by the British government because of the potential for Spanish spies. Maps and spies have gone hand-in-hand for years and are still important in modern battles. I recently picked up the book Swan Song and the opening scene is the President looking at spy satellite images (maps) of Russian Territory. Spies and maps. That’s what this post is about.
Of course spy satellites weren’t always around, but spies were, and they have played an important role in the Great Game of Asia (the name given to the period between 1813 and 1907 when the Brits and Russians duked it out over influence and ownership over Central Asia). Being able to map an area and to gain control over important vantage points, rivers, towns and countries was all part of ‘the game’. The Survey of India I mentioned here, was all part of the British Raj’s need to know about and control their holdings.
But they ran up against a barrier – the physical boundary of the Himalayan Mountains and the geopolitical border with Tibet that had been closed by order of the Chinese Emperor. Although Europeans had sighted the heights of K2 and had scaled peaks only slightly less tall than Mount Everest, they hadn’t been able to map Tibet because of the Chinese border that specifically excluded Europeans. As a result, a captain of the Indian Survey, Thomas G. Montgomerie, decided to train and send disguised native agents into the mountains. Only two men passed the rigorous training: cousins Nain and Mani Singh.
Himalayan Monastery along the Spiti Valley India (2000) Photo (c) Karen Abrahamson
In 1865 they went on their first mission through Nepal and into Tibet to try to reach Lhasa. The two became separated on their journey. Mani made it into western Tibet and returned with some mapping information, but it was Nain who managed to make it to Lhasa. Along the way he was robbed, but managed to retain his survey instruments. Trained to take even paces as his means of measuring distance and using a 100-bead rosary to keep track of his pace-count, he eventually entered the fabled city disguised as devout pilgrim. There he chanced public beheading by taking night-time measurements of altitude and latitude using mercury he poured into his begging bowl.
When he thought people were becoming suspicious of him, he left the city with a Ladakh caravan and headed west along the great Tibetan river, the Tsangpo. Along the way he mapped the river’s course and kept up his careful measures before finally escaping one night to make his way back across the Nepali border. He’d travelled 2,000 miles and mapped it all and returned with descriptions of Lhasa and the first reasonable placement of it on the map.
Nain’s accomplishment was followed by similar mapping parties, not all of which ended well. One agent travelled into northern Afghanistan and was murdered in his sleep. Another returned to Lhasa and back to India with data on almost 48,000 square kilometers of previously unmapped territory. A nephew of Nain’s continued the work and travelled for nearly six years in the mountains. He’d mapped a caravan route to China as well as the headwaters of the Mekon, the Salween and Irrawaddy rivers.
More impressive still, is the adventure of Kinthup, another native trained to survey the mountains. In 1880, he and another man were sent into the mountains to answer the question of whether the Tsangpo River became the Brahamputra. He braved the mountains and escaped after being sold as a slave by his ‘partner’ on the venture, but still managed to complete his mission in a feat that became legendary to Survey of India.
But it was only in 1911, after the Great Game was over, that the mapping of the Himalayas was completed, when the British joined their surveys with those of the Russians they had so long fought against. But it was brave native spies like Nain Singh and Kinthup who did the work for us and brought Lhasa and the Himalayas into the known world.
Himalayas and Crow (2000) Photo (c) Karen Abrahamson
Myth, Magic and the Transformation of Machu Picchu
Hiking the Camino Inca to Machu Picchu should be a transformative experience. After all, I was treading the same stone steps that Inca kings and nobility had trod before the Spanish arrived. Think breath-taking heights (literally), panoramic views of the mountain tops, and struggling up steep grades through jungle and rain forest to get to the ‘Sun gate’ and finally peer down upon the fabled city of Machu Picchu. How can one not be transformed after an experience like that?
Farmstead gate, Sacred Valley, Peru (2011) Photo (c) Karen Abrahamson
There were five of us – a thirty-something New Zealand/Irish couple and a twenty-something British couple – and me at almost twice their age. We started our trip at 4:30 in the morning, joining the small bus that took us to the small town of Ollantaytambo northwest of Cuzco, and then beyond to kilometer 82 on the railroad tracks between Cuzco and Aguas Calientes, the modern town that lies just below Machu Picchu. From there we took to the trail and entered the backcountry of the Sacred Valley of the Urubamba River. We hiked up a gently sloping trail past people bringing horses and burros down to the river, and to fields to pack out the recent potato crop. We were passed on the path by our red-clad porters who literally ran up the path ahead of us like the ‘Flash’, to get to our lunch time stop ahead of us and prepare a massive meal of trout and vegetables and potatoes and pasta. With that break we kept hiking, stopping at lookouts to see terraced remains of ancient Inca communities and the small farmsteads that exist today.
The trail turns upwards (2011) Photo (c) Karen Abrahamson
The ground started up and we aimed at our first pass – 4,200 meters, but stopped to camp for the night at Ayapata, about half way up the mountain flank. So we had a quiet evening listening to the frogs that sang into the night and looking at the southern cross and Orion’s belt hanging over the glaciers, both of which were important to the Incas. The Southern Cross apparently helped predict the growing seasons, as well as major events such as the destruction of the Inca Empire. Orion’s belt represented the three layers of the world that the Incas believed in.
Day 2 began with a great breakfast of fruit and pancakes, but it couldn’t allay the torture to come. This was the day we had to cross the 4,200 meter, appropriately named, ‘Dead Woman’s Pass’. They say the pass earned its name because from a distance the rock formations look like a woman’s breast and nipple and face. Okay, I could see that, but as I began the climb I could also see other possibilities.
Early Morning Mountains, Inca Trail (2011) Photo (c) Karen Abrahamson
You see 4,200 meters makes it hard to breathe. You sweat and you climb uneven stairs and rocky paths and wind up through rough terrain, past old women driving llamas up the slope. Up and I was gasping and thanking god for the two walking sticks I had which, when I wasn’t climbing, I could lean on while I tried to find the oxygen to breath.
From the heights of Dead Woman’s Pass (2011) Photo (c) Karen Abrahamson
Finally, I made it to the top and the freezing wind cut through me and made me pull on all my layers of clothing before starting the difficult journey down.
Think steps and more steps, presumably created by people with a twisted, carnival-funhouse sense of evil. Treacherous and steep and uneven, but we made our way down into a lovely valley with waterfalls and rivers cascading alongside the path through thickening vegetation that became cloud forest thick with the scent of moisture and growing. We had lunch there and it was a matter of throwing ourselves on the ground in exhaustion, having lunch, and then having thirty minutes to rest before the rest of the day’s trek.
You see, we still had another pass to climb.
Upward, and the forest grew up around us, moist and filled with exotic species like bromeliads and orchids, and the trees were covered with moss and old lichen and birds flashed yellow and blue through the branches. The air was heavy and gradually clouds rolled in as we stopped at an old, round ruin, where our guide drew the Cuzco cross for us and told us how the shape represented much of the Inca universe, and how the Urubamba river valley ruins match many of the sacred constellations that the Inca saw in the sky; over-world and this world in harmony.
The rain started then. It washed away the guide’s drawing as we started for the next pass of 4,000 meters. Wearing slickers against the rain, we struggled up – or I did – did I mention that I’ve had knee surgery twice? But I kept slogging as the rain became hail and the guide finally sent the others on towards the next camp while he and I – finally made the top and took shelter in a cave while the downpour continued. That was the first magical moment of the hike. Sitting in semi-darkness while the rain ran down the rock steps and dripped from moss on the rocks and the frogs sang in happiness at the moisture.
And then there was more down. More steps, water-slicked this time, but after what seemed like forever we made camp and I literally just sagged to the ground. It was over. The worst of it was. I had made it over Dead Woman’s Pass and only felt like I was dead.
Phuyupatamarka, the Town above the Clouds (2011) Photo (c) Karen Abrahamson
The next day involved crossing the third pass. It was much lower than the others and I could breathe as we started down the long string of stairs and rough paths through rain forest. As we went, we learned the names of the orchids, and saw how the elephant ear leaves are smaller near the peak and get larger as you go lower because the oxygen increases – which sort of explains why a coastal woman like me is sooo much taller than the people of the sacred valley.
At about 12:30 we had to choose: go to camp or go to nearby ruins. We chose the ruins of Huinay Huayna. Think a great arc of terraces built into a hillside so steep it would be hard to stand. Think jungle rainforest on all sides and we sat on the steps beside a trickling, ancient irrigation channel and looked out over the mountainside and the Urubamba far below. Butterflies, some black, some iridescent turquoise and yellow and translucent fragile, fluttered up around us dancing on the slight breeze. With the sun on our faces and the water music, that was the second magical moment of the trip.
Huinay Huayna, Forever Young, hung above the Urubumba River (2011) Photo (c) Karen Abrahamson
Frogs and cicadas welcomed our 3 am wakeup call the last morning. You see there is a race to get to the Intipunku – the Sun gate and we wanted to be the first out the checkpoint. We were, racing like ghosts by flashlight through pre-dawn darkness to the music of the frogs and cicadas, calling out treacherous footing to each other, struggling up fifty stairs that were almost perpendicular and then reaching the gate to be confronted by — cloud.
The myth is that on solstice days the sun comes through this gate and shines directly through one of the temple windows at Machu Picchu. The myth is that at Machu Picchu there are sacred stones that will fill you with energy if you touch them — but today these stones are cordoned off. The myth is that Machu Picchu exists as one of the few power places in the world, but standing there in the cloud it was easier to believe that Machu Picchu was like Xanadu and never really existed except in our hearts and our wishes. Magic.
Going down to cloud-shrouded Machu Picchu was the anticlimax. No longer is the ancient city a place seen by the very few who dare the ridges and passes of the Canimo Inca. Now busses bring the tourists up from Anguas Calientes every five minutes. Hordes of them, laughing, blabbing, yelling, irreverent, fat, sweaty and swearing tourists of every accent and nationality. There is no place you can go and feel the quiet of the place. There’s barely a place you can hear the birds sing. So I sat in Machu Picchu nursing sore legs and watched the clouds and mists roll over the mountains. I almost wished I had never left the sungate, or had had the chance to keep running the mountain passes seeking a city that never existed.
Unfortunately, the other transformation was the realization that, though my heart may be willing, physically, I’ve outrun my days of running ridges.
Machu Picchu in the mist (2011) Photo (c) Karen Abrahamson
Security and Travel –It’s not just the dangers of the road
Sorting through the last few things I need to do for Peru, I’ve realized the numbers of actions I take to ensure security of myself and my belongings during travel and I thought they might be of value to others.
Child at a window in Kalpa, Northern India (2000) Photo (c) Karen Abrahamson
Thinking about security begins at home, because bad things can happen there while you are gone. Thieves work here as well as they do in a foreign country and if there is any chance they can learn you will be away (and there usually is) then you need to ensure your home is protected. Sure, you can cancel the newspaper and put in timers for lights, but the very fact you cancel your paper, or put a hold on our mail means that you’re sending a message into the universe that you’re not home.
In my situation, I took care of part of the concerns by having someone live in, but that isn’t always possible. My parents have had to deal with this a number of times when they have gone on extended trips. Often home owner’s insurance doesn’t cover you for extended absences. You need someone either in the home or checking the home frequently. This is especially the case in the cold weather months when a winter storm could mean a power loss and frozen pipes and flooding. Not what you want to come home to, especially if insurance won’t cover you because you haven’t had a house sitter while away.
The other consideration, especially when you have someone coming into your home, is to make sure your valuables are safe. For example, though I trust my cat sitter with their wellbeing, I know of others who have had house sitters and have found changes at home like computers reconfigured, and items missing. Worst of all are the creepy stories of someone rifling through your underwear and other private stuff.
To deal with this there are a few things I do. First, I always ask trusted neighbors to keep an eye on the place. Second, I remove everything of significant value like jewelry and either leave it with trusted friends, or place it in a safety deposit box. Along with the jewelry go my external hard drives for both my business and my writing computers in the hopes that even if the ‘Big One’ happens something will survive. Beyond my house and home, I also ask a neighbor to check my car and to start it a couple of times for me while I’m away. In the best of all worlds they would also take the car for a drive because it’s hard on the tires to be in stationary for a month. Last of all, I only give the house-sitter the minimum necessary keys and make sure I get them back immediately when I get home.
Okay. Home is safe. I hope. And the cats will be taken care of because I have left a long list of instructions and also have other people checking in on them.
That leaves me in another country, or in transit. With a backpack I used to always padlock the pack closed, but since 911 this doesn’t work. You are likely to find the lock cut off your pack and you in a foreign country with no solid lock. As a result I don’t lock the pack for the flight, but I do place it inside another bag, thus making it more trouble to break into. What I have is a large lightweight bag that can be broken down easily and stuffed into the bottom of my pack. This bag protects my bag from casual pilferage during flights into dodgy airports and also protects the backpack straps from getting caught in conveyor belt machinery.
When I’m traveling on foreign ground, I have a padlock for the pack’s top opening and also a bicycle chain so that the pack can be chained to something in my hotel room or to my bunk or seat on a train. I also carry electrician’s tape in case someone knifes the pack. The tape can fix just about anything.
For myself, I usually carry most of my traveler’s checks and cash in a money belt or pouch. Depending on the trip I might take both so that not everything is in one place. I also often wear a cross-shoulder purse which could be a target for thieves, but I wear a mesh photographer’s vest over the purse strap, so it isn’t exposed to knives. Finally, perhaps the best protection of all is confidence. Read your maps ahead of time and look confident and like you know where you are going when you are on the street. When you climb in a taxi on a dark night in a new city, make sure you have a map out and visible to the driver and act like you know where you are going, even if you don’t. This makes the driver less likely to drive you around to bump up the cost, or to drive you to places you don’t want to go. If you are arriving late at night, like I am, often you can arrange for the guest house or hostel to even pick you up at the airport.
Dhamayagyi Phato, the Pagan plains (1997) Photo (c) Karen Abrahamson
So there I am. I’m not pretty, but I’m as secure as I can be and I’m as ready to travel as I’m going to get.
Let me start by saying there’s no such thing. You might get close, but perfect is beyond anyone in my humble opinion.
Searching a Paris shop window for the perfect whatever. Photo (c) Karen Abrahamson
I spent a good portion of my Christmas shopping time also looking for the jacket I was going to carry on my trip to Peru. Now I know my trip is three months away, but when you are as tall as I am, finding clothes to fit you is never easy and finding specialty clothes to fit me is even tougher. Shirts and jackets and fleeces that on most women would reach down to the hips, on me barely clear my belly. Trousers—well let’s just say they are never cut long enough.
So finding a jacket that would be very lightweight, but rainproof enough for the rainy season in Peru, warm enough for the mountains, but still breathable enough when I was climbing UP said mountains (probably uphill both ways) was no small task. I needed to start early. I needed to plan where I would go to look. I needed to plan it all and find the perfect jacket.
I didn’t find it.
Everything was either too short or too short in the arms, or it was a man’s jacket and fit like a box. I finally settled on a jacket that they had to order for me and I’m hoping it will do the trick. Not quite as long as I wanted, not quite the fit I wanted, and it has a hood you can’t hide. Maybe it will work, and maybe it won’t, but the trick is to try it.
Why am I telling you this? Because finding the perfect jacket is a lot like trying to write the perfect book.
Over the past three and a bit months I’ve been writing another novel, this one a romantic suspense set in Cambodia, that I call Shadow Play. Writing it, and the last three books I’ve written, have been some of the most difficult creative exercises for me. Why? Because I wanted them to be perfect. Because I knew if they weren’t perfect, they wouldn’t sell. Talk about the wrong emphasis (selling).
The result was that I was so caught up on all the qualities I couldn’t seem to find in my own writing, that I couldn’t seem to see anything good, and if there’s one thing that can shut down the creative brain it’s the editor on your shoulder telling you it’s not good enough.
Luckily, I’m immensely stubborn and I have some great writer friends who helped talk me through these crises of faith, but the most important thing was to keep reminding myself it doesn’t have to be perfect. In this day and age of computers you can write the story, like I did, and discover the characters and their background through the writing process. Then you can go back and reshape the manuscript to fit the characters you actually wrote.
As I write this, I am chuckling because of something I tell my students in an investigative report writing course I teach. Of course I forgot to apply it to my novel writing.
Apparently there were researchers looking at people’s styles of writing and where writers placed the majority if their times in the planning, drafting, or redrafting process . The researchers surmised that people would spend most of their time planning and drafting with a small amount of time on redrafting.
What they found was that they were wrong.
There were actually two approaches to writing: one was the person who spent most of their time planning and writing. The other was the person who just wrote and found their report through the writing and redrafting process. These people rarely did planning. Both types of writers came out with a reasonable product at the end of the day, but both had deficits in their writing toolbox.
Why is this important? Because the best writers can use skills in both planning and redrafting.
When I initially read this information I laughed because I had virtually gotten through school with never writing a second draft, but it told me I had a serious deficit in my skill set. Writing novels has changed that.
I’ve spent time learning the skills of redrafting and now I no longer have to write the perfect novel first draft. With Shadow Play, the next few weeks will be spent going back and redrafting the front end of the book to be more compatible with the latter half. Maybe not perfect, but pretty darn good.
If only it were as easy to add four inches of fabric to the not-so-perfect jacket.
