Compare and Contrast

Just over 2 years ago I was living in the very pretty but rather flat and benign world of West Sussex. After 18 months spent playing in the Canadian Rockies, the Highlands of Scotland and the Himalayas I now find myself permanently based in the French Alps and the village of Samoens in the Grand Massif.

The route to get here has taken me far and high but on reflection it always had a clear goal and direction: to head towards the mountains and always in the pursuit of adventure. I’m no Edmund Hillary or Kenton Cool but I do remember coming to Samoens in the early part of 2009 on a climbing course and leaving having acquired the knowledge of one fundamental fact right in the pit of my stomach – that I wanted more of this environment and how happy it made me feel. I had no idea of what shape this would take but was pretty sure that if I started with only this one goal in mind, that the rest of life would inevitably play out the way it was meant to. By combining fate and free will, I knew that I was simultaneously taking control of my own destiny and in so doing would be embarking upon a journey into the unknown: in itself the essence of true adventure.

So now I find myself living in an adventure playground surrounded by mountains, cliffs and crags all affording me the opportunity to ski, climb, trek, and play outside to my heart’s content. My bloke is made from similar stuff and we have been extremely fortunate to stumble upon the coolest little apartment from which to base our outdoor life together. You would think I’d be doing some pretty big self congratulatory thwacks on my own back right now. Job well done girl wouldn’t you say? Except I’m not. Far from it. My head should be full of fluffy powdery thoughts and my heart brimming with a sense of completeness. Instead it is rathermore occupied with the overwhelmingly negative internal dialogue of I’m not a good enough skier, I’ll never be a good climber, I don’t know anything about the mountains, and basically that I’m crap.

I should know better of course. Everything that I’ve learned over the past couple of years was founded on the basis of the importance of doing your own thing driven only by that what makes sense to you. For the past 18 months I have literally taken on the role of international ambassador for the ‘beat to the sound of your own drum and you will fulfill your own purpose on this planet’ campaign and so it is extremely frustrating for me to see how easy it still is to lose any sense of inner stability when change and new things flood into one’s life. I know that I am fortunate in so much that I can see what is going on inside and am aware of my pattern but somehow this makes the whole situation even more exhausting as it doesn’t stop me engaging with the negativity, especially when I’m hungry, tired or worse, hungry and tired. Being aware doesn’t seem to be enough to stop the relentless progress of the self flagellation express.

What has happened of course is that I’m now pitching myself in the world that I live in but am not yet a part of. I mean literally everyone around me at the moment is either a pro rock climber, mountain guide, ski guru or professional yeti. I could retreat right now and submit to the nonsense that my head is spewing out on a daily basis but that is never going to happen. I am not a victim and I choose right now to use this as a tool for inspiration, motivation, and confirmation that I’m doing what I love. The lesson is startlingly clear: if anything in life makes you feel an extremely strong emotion, whatever it is, you should use it as an inner compass. If viewed in this way, any emotion can then be seen in a positive light and as the most powerful inner tool steering you towards what you uniquely need from the world around you. It works in normal every day life for pretty much anything. Fore example, jealousy in relationships means that there is something missing from the connection that needs to be worked on. In this case, my feeling just a little bit useless can be translated into the fact that I want to be better than I am at the things that I love. And the only way to do that is to get out amongst it more often. Right, where’s my skis…….

Corsica: The Alternative Adventure

It’s funny looking back that when I boarded the ferry from Nice to Calvi one day after returning from the Himalayas, I kind of thought that the adventurous part of my autumn was coming to an end. I’d come directly from a trek in the Langtang valley, attempt on Yala Peak and somewhat debilitating kidney infection to meet up with my boyfriend, give him his prayer flags, and head to Corsica for 3 weeks climbing, trekking and exploring the island. I didn’t know what I expected and what lay ahead but it all seemed rather easy really. Mention Nepal in public and people will reel off stories of treks taken, peaks climbed, personal limits tested, and bowels traumatised. Mention Corsica in public and the most you’re likely to get is: ‘Oh yes, Corsica. Its French isn’t it? I’ve heard its supposed to be beautiful.’ Even preparing for Nepal required a huge amount of planning, amassing visas and immunisations, packets of immodium and She Wees – well one actually. But Corsica? Well we just pitched up for a 4 hour ferry trip on a sunny afternoon to start what surely would just be a benign little potter around an aesthetically pleasing Mediterranean island?

What we found out over the duration (couldn’t bring myself to use the word course) of the next 3 weeks is that there is absolutely nothing smooth or benign about Corsica. In fact, the word that comes to mind every time I think of the place is spiky. Spiky trees from some ancient age when dinosaurs roamed free, spiky rock that is simultaneously visually appealing as it is physically damaging to one’s sensitive journalistic hands, and spiky people who you’ll either admire or despise and a lot of that will be down to whether or not you’re French. Yup, there’s no messing about with the Corsicans and their reputation for liking a good fight is there for all to see; practically every roadsign on the island is either riddled with bullet holes or emblazoned with nationalist graffiti and more often than not, both. As I’m not French I found this rather wild and rebellious outlook kind of exciting but then again, I’ve always liked a good bandit. I’m not sure there are many places in the world where the soundtrack to your attempt to onsight a 6B is the constant baying of eager hunting dogs in pursuit of some poor snuffling wild boar. I say poor but clearly I’m no Linda McCartney as most nights I could be found eagerly devouring yet another portion of terrine de sanglier in the many not so varied establishments frequented during our Corsican jaunt. Once you’ve seen 21 Corsican restaurants, you’ve seen them all…..or something like that.

After the spikyness, the thing that struck me next about Corsica was that it seems to be a land of constant contrast. As this is essentially a complete oxymoron (I’ve been waiting years to use that word in something other than an A-Level English Essay) it would seem appropriate to take the time to explain this more clearly. Well the contrasts are obvious. It is a land of wildly fluctuating landscapes. It is well documented and absolutely true that within an hour you can be on a white sandy beach reminiscent of the Cape Town coast or high up amongst snow covered peaks that would challenge the most hardened of Alpinists. You can surf the Brazilian-like waters around Les Iles Sanguinaires, hike the infamous and challenging GR20, go deep sea fishing from the historic town of Porto Vecchio, dangle 180m above the ground on a Tyrolean traverse in the Asco valley, sport climb in the sun on the legendary Corsican taffoni, go caving and canyoneering almost everywhere, do long multipitch routes in a stunning Alpine landscape, you can even ski…and so it goes on. It is exactly this kind of variation that makes Corsica one awesome adventure travel destination as basically you get several holidays in one and in the current economic climate, that’s got to be a good thing.

Yes the contrasts are well known but what about the constants? Time to break it down:

1. As alluded to earlier; The Restaurant Menu

So predictable is the appearance of every type of meat prepared in every possible way on the menu of every traditional Corsican eatery that after 3 weeks of relentless restaurant exposure even Captain Caveman would likely be found desperately seeking a vegetable or some source of Omega 3. Should Cavie indeed decide that a diet based entirely on sausage, ham, beef, boar, veal or game become a little too much and head for a fish restaurant in the coastal town of Calvi, I would at this point urge him to get out his iPhone and use its calculator to work out the cost per gram of his St Jacques fishy. We clearly did not and ended up dropping 144 euros on the ugliest, googly eyed fish I’ve ever seen. Such was man friend’s demeanour that I don’t even think a night out with Billy Connolly, a free pass to enjoy the Playboy Mansion for a week, and a lifetime of guaranteed sunshine and powder would have helped raise the mood.

2. Motoring Madness

Whether we were on the twistiest of single track mountain roads in a hailstorm with zero visibility or cruising along the gently meandering coastal roads in glorious sunshine trying desperately to look all fashion and Italian, the Corsican’s driving behaviour remained utterly consistent: quite frankly they are lunatics behind the wheel. And behind the wheels of the most amazing looking vehicles I’ve ever seen; part jeep, part monster truck, part tractor. Colour? Come on, this is spiky bandit land - camouflage of course. As traditionally I believe the goal of camouflage was to divert attention away from yourself, quite why they insist spraying their road monsters green, beige and brown continues to escapes me because my god, you certainly can’t miss ‘em. So while petrol heads across the globe had their eyes firmly fixed on the exciting conclusion to the 2010 F1 season, we were living out our very own version of the Whacky Races. Amusing? Yes. Terrifying? Totally. I blame the fact we had a French number plate and on reflection taking that into consideration, I’m surprised we’re even alive and have not been made into some god awful terrine.

3. NO-vember

The key here is the NO in November. By travelling in November we knew we were heading to the island in the offseason and it was in fact our intention to find out what Corsica could offer the travelling adventurer outside the peak tourist period. Whilst things hadn’t reached tumbleweed blowing in the wind proportions quite yet, the overwhelming feeling was definitely one of being chased out of your favourite pub at last orders when you’ve just ordered a round and finally got yourself a seat by the fire. Understandably pretty much anything linked to the GR20 was closed and by that I mean practically every hotel, café and restaurant within 10 miles of the famous trekking trail. Such was the regularity of this that stumbling upon an open hostelry often provoked way out of proportion and quite shameful reactions of excitement, as was the case high up in the magnificent Col de Bavella. For an hour we had stood in silence, gazing open mouthed in awe as the most incredible sunset illuminated a mountain range that can truly rival Patagonia and Chamonix in the spectacular stakes. But when we noticed there was a café open – we were off. Bieres: 1, Natural Wonders of the World: 0. But even if you were lucky to stumble upon somewhere that was open, even then you were not yet home and dry. Very often it would appear that the most intriguing of produce would have been dropped from the Corsican cafés’ November menu as harshly as Capello tends to drop the lovely Becks. I won’t go into too much detail but all I’ll say is that for me the rejection and negativity linked with the word ‘Panini’ means it may be a long time before I can set foot in Costa Coffee, or Italy for that matter. If we weren’t quite getting the message that perhaps the Corsicans were more than ready to shut up shop and piss off to do whatever they do in the winter (which if it was me would be to sit very still and drink all of their quite frankly amazing wine), it definitely reached us on the last night of our trip. Our Bastian Hotel had a rather appropriate neon light breakdown meaning that only the letter L of ‘Hotel’ was illuminated on the outside of the building. It should have come as no surprise then that at 4 am in Hotel Hell we were awoken to the sound of 3 gunshots in quick succession, and then rather eerily one more 2 minutes later. Yikes, time to go home!

Of course (to not include that word in an article on Corsica would be a crime against journalistic opportunity) we did more than drive, eat, be shot at and refused squashed baguettes with cheese. We climbed in the awesome Vallee du Restonica, did multipitch routes in Bonifatu, trekked part of the GR20 up to Lac du Melo, hiked deep into the Bavella to see the awesome Trou de la Bombe, and did something physical every day the rain would allow us. For some reason however it was not these physical achievements but rather the little observations of the place that in my eyes really summed up the spirit of the island and our unique out of season Corsican experience.

Funnily enough as our approach to the trip was one of ‘let’s go see’, our Corsican jaunt ended up being a far bigger adventure in many ways than my Nepalese undertaking panned out to be. It was at the same time unpredictable and frustrating as it was hilarious and illuminating. If you believe that adventure can be defined as a journey with an uncertain outcome and if this is what you are looking for, then I would strongly suggest getting over there before it becomes too overcrowded, predictable and mainstream (see: Everest Base Camp).

Tales of the Unexpected

40,429 ft – somewhere east of Budapest.

Despite my current altitude I don’t have the slightest element of a headache as I’m currently onboard the last of my 6 Qatar Airways flights in 3 weeks and heading for Heathrow. I could’ve started this sooner into the flight but quite frankly I decided to prioritise the viewing of the cinematic mast

erpieces that are the 2010 versions of The Karate Kid and The A-Team. I don’t regret my decision in the slightest and if I only had time I’d knock off that other sure fire Oscar winner on the list ‘Marmaduke’ aswell. But all that excitement in one day could finish this rather tired little penguin off once and for all, so to the blog…..

Well the last time I updated this I was in Kathmandu and I knew that what lay ahead of me over the next few weeks would be an unforgettable experience. The anticipation of trekking through the jungle of the lower Langtang valley as the world’s most famous mountain range opened before my eyes had me breakdancing on the spot with excitement. Whilst the details were yet to carve themselves indelibly in my heart and mind, I could visualise what lay ahead. Yes, if I’m brutally honest I knew I was sitting on the verge of many great unknowns, but there were certain ‘givens’ that I was expecting from my Himalayan adventure. By the time I returned to KTM I certainly expected at least the following:

1. To have experienced the sensation of my jaw dropping at the sight of these awesome mountains and to have been privileged to have seen the great mountaineering skills of the Sherpas and famous Nepali porters first hand

2. To have on my camera a handful of spectacular blue sky, prayer flag fluttering, arms around teammates summit photos and probably even more images of small, impossibly cute, and very dirty children

3. To have witnessed spectacularly disgusting toilets and to have been afflicted by some pretty hardcore action in ‘Bots’wana region if you know what I’m saying…..

4. To have learned a great deal about Nepali, Tibetan and specifically the Tamang culture and probably have bought some of those ridiculous MC Hammer colourful trousers which I would believe were fantastic despite the constant reassurances from my boyfriend that they were in fact simultaneously hideous and pretentious

5. To have had at least one personal epiphany which would change the course of the future of my life – perhaps involving a shaven head friendly faced and serene man sporting maroon and yellow robes

Oh and by the time I boarded any European bound flight, I would of course have spent 4 days in Dubai and would be leaving overwhelmed by the excesses of the place, horrified by its lack of authenticity, and vowing never to grace it with my MC Hammer trouser wearing presence ever again.

Ok so that is what I expected, so what actually happened? A lot. Shed loads in fact. Some of it I expected yet to be brutally honest, most of it I couldn’t have anticipated in my most yak cheese fuelled dreams and that in itself has been the greatest surprise of the trip.

Of course I should have known it would never have been predictable. The whole randomness of how it even came into being (touched on in earlier blog posts) rendered it nigh on impossible that this would be a ‘normal’ trip to the Himalayas and beyond. If I had been using the services of the stereotypical UK or US based trekking/mountaineering company, things would have undoubtedly been far more predictable. But normality was not what I was seeking and as a result I was served up large portions of mentalness on a daily basis.

I should’ve known that things were not taking a regular – so to speak – direction when four days after landing in Nepal, I was still to take a Brad Pitt (if you don’t understand I have utter faith you’ll work it out in less than 5 seconds….5, 4, 3….there you go), let alone experience the kind of nuclear fall out I had been forewarned would be nothing less than an inevitability. And so it was that the trip continued along these lines – ie contradictory to what I had anticipated yet full (!) with the lessons and experience that inevitably come with the unexpected.

The Langtang Valley itself is supposed to be the destination of choice for those looking for a more authentic Nepalese trekking experience. With little desire to be route marched alongside thousands of other MC Hammer trouser wearers around the Annapurna circuit, or up and down the staircase of the Everest Base Camp trek, I was looking forward to trekking for hours on end with only yaks, monkeys, red pandas, and the occasional snow leopard for company. While there were elements of the trek that were indeed like this - the initial day from Syabru Besi up to Khangin and the following day’s trek high up the valley before joining the well trodden route at the god awful Lama Hotal – there were far more animals in the shape of Western tourists than I had expected to find in the valley. No doubt an enormous contributing factor was the weather which had grounded flights in and out of Lukla (the airport for all Everest bound travellers) for an unprecedented 4 days and meant that alternative routes needed to be found for hundreds of trekkers pretty damn quickly. It may also just well be that my own idea of solitude in the mountains comes from a slightly different basis than others – as a Scot I have been brought up on a diet of ‘no bugger around’ when heading towards high places and as a result, may be a tad bit spoilt in that area.

Whilst I might have appreciated a little more of the solitude that I am used to in the mountains of Scotland, what I certainly didn’t appreciate was the distinct and rather too familiar Scottishness that the weather began to assume the higher up the valley we travelled. Yup, not only did the weather inadvertently bring more bodies to the Langtang than I had anticipated, it also had a pretty significant impact on the days when we were due to be away from the crowds – ie those which involved the attempt on Yala Peak. Minimal visibility verging on nil. Drizzle turning to snow and ice rain all in the space of 4 minutes. A shifting breeze verging from annoying to menacing the higher that we laboured into the mist. As it was we didn’t make it to the summit of Yala Peak and I for one am not particularly fussed by this – for sure the Scottish weather conditions slowed our progress but had we continued the last few hundred meters towards the summit, they would have undoubtedly have had a far more sinister and longer lasting impact on the trip and quite possibly our lives. It was big boys stuff up there and to play any Highland games would have been quite frankly, nothing less than idiocy.

Ah yes. Idiocy. A word upon meeting my 2 fellow Iranian adventurers I feared might feature rather regularly in my vocabulary when it came to observing their behaviour in the mountains. And so it came to pass. From the minute that Shervin suggested that Mohammad buy a $20 sleeping bag in KTM to spend at least one night at 4,800m in the Himalayas, the phrase utter f**king idiocy (U.F.I) almost became my catchphrase when I watched them go about their day to day business on our trip. To give you an idea, Shervin’s summit day rucksack contained jeans, flip flops and a copy of The Guardian. Exactly. To be fair, Mohammad lives in Dubai and Shervin in Frinton on Sea so I guess their mountain U.F.I is kind of forgivable. What was completely not forgivable in my eyes however was a Sherpa demonstrating any kind of U.F.I high in the mountains and I almost wept with disappointment when Chumbi insisted on leading us in a direction that I instinctively knew was not only incorrect but also ridiculously dangerous. Spending the ensuing 2 hours clambering over 4 foot high rocking boulders covered in snow at 5,000m was not only incredibly energy sapping and a total waste of time, but could have very easily resulted in legs of the broken variety. I have never felt so frustrated, angry, and quite frankly like I was the only one who could observe what we were trying to do and actually adopt the appropriate strategy and go the right bloody way to facilitate any chance of getting near the summit. It appears that Sherpas don’t follow maps. Well you know what? That’s great if they know where they’re going. Otherwise it is as stupid as anyone heading out to try and climb Ben Nevis wearing nothing but a pair of Speedos and Crocs.

A strange set of circumstances indeed and the weirdness foundations were now firmly laid to build a strong set of utter bizarreness for the rest of the trip and this is exactly what happened. Any illness that I had anticipated experiencing in Nepal would surely have resulted in dodgy water induced bottom explosions so enormous that the Richter scale would struggle to record their historically unprecedented levels. But the oddness continued when I began to feel worse and worse, no energy, the occasional totally untactical chunder in front of everyone dining in the Namaste Guesthouse in Kyanjin Gompa, ludicrous headaches and irritability, and enormous swings in body temperature. I would awake in the morning and my sleeping bag would be utterly drenched through with my sweat, my hair would be soaking and heart racing. Altitude sickness? No it would appear that only our Nepali porters would be the ones who would be afflicted by this during the trip. Of course. They are totally unaccustomed to these kind of situations as they only come out into these mountains about 5 times a year. Yeah right. Anyway, as it was when I got to Dubai I was thankfully route marched pretty much straight to the local medical centre by one of my dearest friends and it was a damn good thing that we did not pass Go or collect any amount of Rupees or Dirhams as an infection had made its dangerous little way into my kidneys and I was informed that had I waited much longer, things could have been pretty messy. As it was I loved Dubai. I didn’t even expect to like it, let alone love it but I really really did. Perhaps it was the security of being looked after by someone after the difficulties of the preceding weeks, or maybe it was the utter relief of being somewhere where life was not a minute by minute shit fight. It may have even been the fact that I was shockingly, blatantly chatted up by a very handsome Emirati passport control officer when entering the country but there’s no need to analyse. It’s a fantastic place and I look forward to returning when I don’t feel as if I have only 33 seconds left to live……

So as I sit on this UK bound aircraft, I am returning home with a whole host of memories and experiences, a painful peeing problem and a total absence of MC Hammer trousers. My boyfriend will be pleased with the latter but probably a little less enamoured with the previous acquisition. I may not have put many of the experiences on my ‘must-haves’ list before going to Nepal but I wouldn’t have changed any of them for the world. It is an intriguing place and a land where visitors should suspend any kind of expectation upon hitting the tarmac at Kathmandu airport. From the moment you head out of the relative calm and safety of airport interior and into the chaos and heat of the city and beyond, I advise you to do nothing more than make a pact with your own adventure – smile, open your eyes and your heart and expect only the unexpected. If you do only these few things then you might just have your own unique Nepali experience. And no amount of strange happenings will ever be able to take that from you. Ooh, looks like I may actually have had an epiphany after all…..Kathman-done.

Doing the Du in the Kat Man….

And they’re off…. That’s what it feels like arriving in Kathmandu – one minute you are in your little peaceful airplane world gazing out of the window and trying desperately to identify any of the countless majestic Himalayan peaks soaring above the fluffy clouds, then you land and that’s it. Majestic silence and wonder are immediately replaced with majestic chaos. Smells, noise, horns, people, colours, fires, rubbish, cows, dogs, dead people, flags….its gloriously mental. Having said that it appears to be a slightly different kind of anarchy in Kathmandu. More one of a kind of ‘ordered chaos’ – a total oxymoron I know, but that is absolutely the stand out observation that I have made since my plane hit the tarmac at an alarming rate 24 hours ago.

The greatest example of this structured confusion can be found on the roads of this awesome city. Now I have just had one of the most mind blowing days of my life sat on the back of a Sherpa’s motorbike zooming all over the city. We went speeding around from one jaw dropping temple to the next incredible prayer flag adorned K-Du highlight but I have a confession to make. Visually and spiritually awesome as these temples and other must-sees were, by far and away the most amazing experience for me was actually when we were in transit. You see some stuff sat on the back of a motorbike weaving in and out of the Tuk Tuks and buses wearing shorts, flip flops and not even a glimmer of a helmet – sorry mum. Yup we raised a few eyebrows did Sherpa and I on our red bullet and it definitely didn’t pass me by the fact that I didn’t see one other westerner on the back of any bike. While I loved every minute and it didn’t worry me in the slightest, I’m not bloody surprised there weren’t any others doing the same thing. It’s mental out there people and is probably the best form of therapy anyone suffering from any kind of control issues! And it doesn’t make sense but it does make sense if that makes any sense? Hmmm…..let me try and explain. On the roads in Kathmandu there appear to be no rules and as a result people make up their own, and they all seem to work even though some are a little more perplexing than others. For example, safety. So as I’ve said already, I am helmetless (oi oi!!). But Sherpa, who is driving, has a helmet (repeat previous bracketed phrase). This seems to be the norm for all bike riders and their passengers in K-Du and I can only speculate that it’s something to do with legal stuff. Why else would a family of four be riding on the same motorbike (indeed a sight to behold!) and the father is the only one wearing a helmet? God knows. Wait, let me rephrase that. Buddha, Shiva, Ganesh etc etc etc knows. There is a plethora of geographically appropriate Gods in this country and I may be so bold as to speculate that it may in fact be they who actually hold the key to the functionality of the whole traffic mentalness. From what I’ve witnessed in only 24 hours on the roads in this great city, the entire population should be wiped out in about 10 years. But during the entire day I didn’t see one crash, not one person shouting at anyone else, and only one ambulance. So where does religion come in to this? Oh yes, well basically it got me thinking that to drive and ride like they do in such huge numbers with no rules and barely a set of traffic lights, the Kathmandu-ers must be bloody aware of what is going on at all times. Awareness and tolerance. Key skills to be a good driver in any country I would suggest. And if you think about it, this approach would have to be at the base of your belief system to enable itself to permeate out into the way you operate on a daily basis, even down to getting on your bike/in your car to journey over the tarmac and dust. And this is the unique thing about Kathmandu – you have literally thousands of extremely spiritual people living side by side others who follow an equally long established religion and they all appear to respect each others’ open displays of worship. There does not appear to be any sense of anyone feeling threatened or operating from a point of blame, anger of fear. So what I’m saying is that it would appear to me that this base awareness, respect, tolerance of others which underpins the city’s moral framework translates out onto the roads meaning that its citizens absolutely can drive around in the most dangerous conditions with barely a problem.

Being fortunate enough to be offered this crazy ride by my Sherpa, combined with having the balls to actually get on the bike in the first place, has given me what feels like a very unique insight into this city on day 1. But that’s kind of the way that life works I reckon, whack some equal parts luck and bravery into the pot and a dinner of great rewards is very often served…..I’m just glad that roadkill wasn’t the dish of the day.

En route from the Highlands to the High Land

Qatar Airport 0520 BST. I have definitely headed East but have not yet reached my destination. Ah nothing like a bit of philosoph(ie) at stupid o'clock half way around the globe. "They" - the ones who spread myths about a range of topics but always remain anonymous - say it's all about enjoying the journey right? Well the journey to get to the point of actually getting on a plane bound for Nepal has been extraordinary to say the least. What started out as a plan conceived in the Canadian Rockies to climb Ama Dablam has now materialised into a trek into the Langtang Valley to distribute medical aid into the mountain villages and then an attempt on the 5,500m Yala Peak. Originally I was going to be joining an organised expedition with a bunch of other Western high altitude seekers but how things have actually worked out is that I'm going to be hanging out in the Himalayas with Shervin, the Iranian pharmacist, Shervin's random friend Mohammed from Dubai, a Sherpa called Chumbi, Sherap the Nepalese student, and 3 porters. And of course this all materialised as a result of an ankle ligament injury which inadvertantly led to a meeting with a Nepalese Sherpa on a beach in the north east of Scotland. The rest as they say, is the present.

So yes, it's going to be special, it already is. As a result it was befitting that the journey kicked off with something a little bit different in the form of sharing the Inverness - London Gatwick flight with a Hollywood A-Lister. Of course Penguins respect the privacy of all human beings and stay away from the tendency to name drop ("Amanda.......Hamilton".......you know who you are!!) and as such said celebrity shall remain nameless in this instance. However should anyone wish to contribute financially to my ridiculous globe trotting and attempt to set the largest carbon footprint for a penguin in 2010, then I would be more than happy to reveal anything about Tilda Swinton's personal flying habits. Oh bugger. Back to the credit card then.....

Speaking of the credit card, it had better prepare itself for some Guantanamo Bay proportioned abuse. Having already had to spend £175 on excess baggage (don't ask, well do, but I'll hit you) in Heathrow and facing the prospect of having to pay out twice that amount for the return journey via Dubai, I decided to celebrate with a wanky soya latte in Doha. £7 later. If I knew the Nepali for arseholewankershitbumpoo, I would evidently write it here.

On that note, I'm off to consult my language book to learn a few useful and possibly even practical words and phrases. Currently my vocab extends as far as the Nepali for 'sexy' and a fantastic word for lady's bits. Am thinking that 'hello' may just be more appropriate but you never know......