Another Piece of Cod Philosophy

In 2007 a brave experiment was conducted by the Washington Post Newspaper. It placed a world famous classical musician on the concourse of a busy commuter railway station in Washington DC to see what happened. The object of this piece of social research was directed towards perception, taste and priorities. The questions posed were:- Do we perceive and appreciate beauty in a commonplace environment at an unexpected hour? Do we recognize talent in an unexpected context?

Joshua Bell, a violinist of prodigious talent, played for 45 minutes on a station concourse and was “rewarded” with tips of $32.17 in coinage chucked into his open violin case by passers-by. Bell played pieces composed by Bach, Schubert, Ponce and Massenet on his 1731 Stradivarius, a violin fabulous in sound quality and equally fabulous in value.

A thousand people passed by without so much as a nod in his direction. Only six individuals showed any sign of recognition of something unusual.

The experiment was written up by the newspaper to great acclaim and was awarded the 2008 Pulitzer Prize. The entire episode was also videoed.

And there it might have rested had it not also become a social media meme that crops up every so often for 36 hours of glory before disappearing into the fug below the “press for older posts” where it rattles around with soppy entreaties to “like” if you love your Mom/ Dad/ Daughter/ Son; or “share” if you know someone with a life threatening disease, or “comment” on a silly photo to see what happens 6 seconds later.

The social media post is a turgid description of this experiment that draws a possible but frankly improbable conclusion that “If we do not have a moment to stop and listen to one of the best musicians in the world playing the best music ever written, how many other things are we missing?” Needless to say this is picked up, shaken and stirred, shared and mooned over by chattering facebookers, gets gallons of “likes” and disappears  for another 6 months.

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There are a couple of things that intrigue me about this extraordinary affair; this happening, and its consequences.

Primarily is the fact that far from being a happening, very little of note did happened. A world famous violinist played on a railway station for 45 minutes and very few people noticed. This is worse in a way than absolutely nothing happening. An event damned by a faint spark of a little bit of happening.

Secondly I am not in the least surprised that very little happened - but the Washington Post published a prize winning article about it, and the “event” has become a part-time internet viral meme. So I decided to read the article to try and understand what I was missing.

Initially I started with a sense of awe at the task that the journalist had set himself - the jaw dropping job of scaling the Everest heights of nothingness to create something. 7,300 valiant words later nothing of any real substance emerged.

The article reports that one of the few who noticed the violinist was a 3 year old boy being dragged along by his flustered mother who hurried the reluctant child away from his fascination with the violinist. He was one of a number of similarly captivated children. Another was a man who when interviewed said he recognised the nuances of a classical musician’s style as distinct from a busking fiddler because he had trained as a violinist as a child. A third was the only person who actually recognised Joshua Bell because she happened to have been at a concert given by him three weeks earlier. There is just one person who actually dallied a while to listen to the music.

Classical fingering - from a violinist's view
point.

Fiddler fingering - as seen by a busker

There is a mild philosophical discussion in the article invoking Immanuel Kant, place and context; and the first two lines of one of my favourite poems is quoted: -

What is this life if full of care

We have no time to stand and stare

              From “Leisure”, by W.H. Davies

There is mild lip service in parts of the article to the sadness that modern life leaves little room for the acknowledgement and wonderment of beauty, and the article concludes – with no conclusion.

I don’t really know what the Washington Post was setting out to do. Did they honestly think that they would elicit any meaningful response from this exercise?

The fact that a child was drawn to the musician is hardly unusual. Children are naturally attracted to anything out of the ordinary and stimulating, it’s in their nature. An ex-instrumentalist will notice another musician playing a familiar instrument. To spot someone recently seen on the stage in a more mundane situation (albeit in this instance performing out of context) happens all the time in a large city. Buskers are common in every cosmopolitan urban thoroughfare.

I can see no useful conclusion being drawn from this rather daft exercise. However once it hits the firmament of social networks all sense flies out of the window. Suddenly this experiment takes on the heavy and unsupportable mantle of a creed to the waste of modern life and the fact that we can somehow no longer see or hear beauty of such exquisite delicacy when it is staring us in the face, because we have no time to stand and stare. This, in the sphere of social media becomes a mantra that we can be self righteous about and mentally flagellate ourselves for a couple of hours, and then forget about it.

The fact is that a famous violinist who is unlikely to be recognized outside the concert hall, played a piece of music the complexity of which would only be understood by a fraction of the population, on a fabulously valuable instrument the subtle tones of which are unlikely to be recognized in a concert hall let alone an acoustically challenged railway station.  This happened in a context so far removed from the normal milieu of such a performance that the very meaning, ambience, and environment removes any artistic subtlety and renders it mundane.

A violin, that isn't a Stradivarius, and a
Rhino that is actually carved out of rock, but
neither the worse for that and both splendid!

For some reason failing to recognize the combination of fame, high value, and Bach coming together on an echoic railway station concourse is a sign of our inability to perceive and appreciate beauty. This is utter rubbish and a daft piece of cod philosophy which actually says more about the social media chatterers who are responsible for perpetuating this balderdash than it does about perceptions and appreciation of beauty in commonplace circumstances.

I can think of far better tests of perceptions and appreciation of art and beauty and vouchsafe that they would elicit a surprisingly positive set of results. And I wonder what other ideas people have for such experiments.

Cross cultural harmony - Chopin and Tibetan singing bowls.
The Prelude is in D Major & the largest bowl is within
a whisker of D.

A not-quite Strad rests comfortably with Asian harmonic
bowls among African metal sculpture in a bed of herbs.
What potential magic! 

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As a post script - this experiment was also carried out in 1930. A famous violinist played incognito on a railway station. In fact he played two of the pieces that were played by Joshua Bell in similar circumstances in 2007. The results of the experiment were strikingly similar, which is to say very little happened.  But the real story is that the 1930 violinist, Jacques Gordon, played a Stradivarius violin that was later to be owned by Joshua Bell and sold on in order to buy the instrument on which he performed on the station concourse in 2007.

Now that’s a story, but it’s neither cute enough nor banal enough to become a social media meme – I hope!

The Language of Altitude

Trying to get the essence of a new language is exciting. By essence I mean being able to use a few basic and useful words and phrases like “hello”, “goodbye”, “I would like some really good coffee please”, “where is the toilet”, and “I need to vomit”. With these five basic phrases you can get by in almost any situation.

Our first night on the road in the Khumbu Valley. The rooms at Phakding are basic and un-heated, although they are “ensuite”, which is to say that there is a tiny bathroom pod that hangs out over a babbling mountain stream and accommodates a conventional toilet pan, a shower and a basin. Quite what happens to the waste water from any of these appliances is open to conjecture. We have our evening meal and relax around an electric fan heater – the last such decadence we see for the next 12 nights. It is very cold and wet, and could be miserable if we let it be.

"Our first night on the road." Dramatic backdrop to some
wonderfully basic architecture.

Hari and I start the inevitable – “lets start speaking Nepalese in twelve minutes flat.” We laugh a lot and I learn very little, even though I slavishly note down words in my note book. At least I try, but between my dreadful writing and Haris’ thick accent and his dreadful writing I end up with a spiders web of dodgy phonetics with lots of double consonants.

We however sort out “Hallo” – Namaste; and “Goodbye” – Namaste. Well that’s simple enough and very sensible; an exchange designed especially for idiot foreigners. 

“Thank you” is Dhanebhat, and for some reason this simple word eludes me for days to come and as for “You’re welcome” (or “it’s an absolute pleasure old chap” in standard English) which is Suwagatham – if I understand Haris’ script correctly, still eludes me, although Kevin managed successfully to reduce it to sugarmouth for convenience.

An endearing moon faced child and her equally endearing
Mum. Hari, despite looking smug is no relation.

This intensive language lesson is happening while Kevin is chatting to a lone (and obviously wealthy) Canadian on her second gap year and Lavern is chatting to the owner of the Tea House who is nursing the most endearing moon-faced child.

Hari and I progress to exchanging kiSwahili pole pole (the language of Kilimanjaro) for the Nepalese bistari bistari; both meaning “slowly slowly” and used in the context of moving about at high altitude. “Tea” is Chiya in Nepalese not so far away from Chi in kiSwahili. This must be one of the most universal words in the world – other than “Okay”, a couple of very familiar Anglo-Saxon swear-words, and “Nelson Mandela”.

Phakding "Main Street". Our first stop. Bhim

is skulking in the far doorway. The donkey

has nothing to do with any of us.

“Coffee” is coffee, which is also usefully global.

Then we get onto sex, or should I say gender. “Woman” is Kate, and “Man” is Manchhe. At least I think so, because these notes are covered with many crossings out and are largely obscured by coffee stains. “Baby” is Bachha, - another interesting array of double consonants. “ I'm fine” is Tichha, and delightfully “Bye Bye” is Ta-ta.

But it is Manchhe that sticks – or rather Budo Manchhe. Hari says “You Budo Manchhe.” “No,” I respond “I’m Thaneri Manchhe, like you” demonstrating my new found command of the Nepalese language and my understanding of the difference between “young” and “old”. “No, no” he giggles “No, no, Budo Mancche” and emphasizes his assessment of my age with a painful punch on the shoulder. Across the room our two porters, Bhim and Junior (not yet known as Kharabir) grin broadly and obsequiously intone “Budo Manchhe”. And from then on Budo Manchhe becomes a mantra. I should feel like a god – but have become an Old Age Pensioner!

En-route between Pangboche and  Dingboche trying to take my mind off breathing I was mentally repeating the Nepalese  words we had come across so far. Not on the face of it a difficult task given the very few I could remember. Passing a diminutive Sherpa couple each bowed under a load of vast proportions I cheerfully gasped out “Namche” by way of greeting. My only defence is that we had been trekking in the neighbourhood of a truly unforgettable place called Namche Bazzar and that this word had obviously lodged itself firmly in the left hemisphere of my brain and shoved - Namaste - the word of greeting, to one side.

En-route between Pangnoche  and Dingboche . . " The site
of a terrible language faux pas.

This then was the equivalent of greeting someone in Paris (France) by saying “Paris”, or someone in London (England) by saying “London”. In the former instance you would be ignored entirely and in the latter instance you would of course rightly be arrested for gross invasion of privacy. Say “New York” to someone in New York (USA) and you will be charged with terrorism and confined to Guantanamo Bay for a life time. Likewise say “Alice Springs” to someone in Alice Springs (Australia) you could end up with a very fat lip or a broken jaw.

For me in Nepal the embarrassment was equal to all the above because there is nothing more mocking than the sound of derisory tubercular laughter echoing around the mountain fastness of a place, near a place called “Namche” and rightly not called “Namaste".

"Budo Manchhe becomes a mantra" Hari and Bhim hold up
an old age pensioner just before the climb up the "hill" to
Namche Bazzar.

More Yak Facts

As yet another Yak-train passes us on the narrow track and we huddle intimately into the bank trying to avoid their baleful eyes and razor sharp horns I wonder how many incidences of roadside banditry there are along this road.

A Yak train in a semi-urban environment

High-jacking, or I suppose more accurately, Yak-jacking would have to be a peculiar and special disreputable art, for the following inescapable reasons.

• Yaks are slow, methodical, contemplative and irritable. On steep inclines they will walk for perhaps ten paces and then stop, gaze around, have a think, catch their breath and proceed for a further ten steps and repeat the process, and mutter “Om Mani Padme Hom” under their breath.  A quick getaway would be out of the question.

" . . then stop, gaze around, have a think, catch their breath"

A couple of Yaks taking a well earned rest.

• At lower altitudes where there is vegetation the paths are generally walled or steeply cut into the mountain sides making deviation from the path very difficult, so temporary and nefarious road diversions would also not work because there is nowhere to deviate to. At higher altitudes where visibility is excellent for kilometres in all directions a road sign saying “Diversion, Road-works Ahead”, or a set of temporary traffic lights will look decidedly fishy, and would cut no ice (sorry!) with a hardened Yak handler.

• Yaks are fitted with an automatic tracking system in the form of a Yak bell hung from their neck that you can hear from at least half a kilometre away (much further in open valleys) – so stealth would be a bit of an issue. 

Some very visible Yaks against a painted sky . . . 

• Lastly the Yak handlers while generally small and apparently infirm with hacking tubercular coughs are actually as tough as the old boots they wear, so tough you would not want to tangle with them while trying to steal a Yak train.

I conclude therefore that traffic offences of this nature are rare. A conclusion that is fully supported by a complete absence of traffic cops.

Flippancy aside, Yaks appear to be beautifully groomed – unless their coats are naturally glossy and well kempt.

"Yaks appear to be beautifully groomed"  Photo shoot from
the latest Khumbu Valley Spring Collection

I think that they are truly naturally good looking animals that are revered as such by their owners. Interestingly while there is lots of shouting, gestured threats and full body lunges made at Yaks from their minders, never once did we see any form of violence against the animals.

Yaks are an essential part of the economy of the Khumbu Valley being the pack-animals of choice. Unable to avoid a professional interest I established that a Yak day costs $10, and that travelling time between Lukla and Everest Base Camp (EBC) is five days. (Obviously Yaks do not need acclimatization days.) A Yak can carry up to 60kgs at a time, and the return journey is three days. Thus the cost to transport 60kgs to EBC is $80, all inclusive, or a smidgen over $1 a kilo.  However there is a minimum charge – you can’t hire anything less than four Yaks at a time. So if you are desperate to get your meagre 60kgs to Base Camp and cannot make up the weight with other stuff you could end up paying premium of $3 per kilo. The moral of this story is make sure you have got stuff for four Yaks to carry before you hire Yak transport; or to put it another way make sure you've got a sufficient supply of mars bars with you, because the marginal cost of extra emergency supplies will be incredibly high.

Gratuitous photo of a truly handsome beast. A Yak among
Yaks!

There was a point at Lobuche where the afternoon became a white-out. The clouds closed in and the snow fell in earnest. The planned walk up and along the ridge of the lateral moraine formed by and overlooking the Khumbu Glacier was cancelled, despite pleas to Hari.

Kevin and Lavern were discussing the conditions outside – which were blisteringly cold. A party of Yaks and their minders were parked just outside the Tea House windows. Everything was caked in new blown snow and it all looked very bleak out there. I had missed the essence of the conversation but caught Lavern saying something to the effect that “- a least they should have gloves – they are after all human beings.” For some reason, which I still cannot fully explain I thought she was referring to the Yaks, and not the attendant Sherpas. This may have been prompted by previous comments about her dislike of seeing Yaks being used as pack-animals – and for some weird altitude induced moment I thought that she had taken this notion to fantastic anthropomorphic heights of animal welfare, i.e. that the Yaks should be equipped with gloves.

I laughed and was rightly rewarded by a sharp look and “What are you laughing at?” or “What’s so funny?” or something along those lines, and I could not give a reasonable explanation. I could not explain that I had had a vision of Yaks in mittens, woollen bootees and those distinctive conical Nepalese hats with ear flaps. That I had so missed the point of this conversation about Sherpa welfare, and that I could not explain that, I could not explain how stupid I felt. And I still have not apologised for this faux pas.

"Everything was caked in new blown snow" A picture of

gloomy Yaks without mittens

Of Yaks and Jokes

In 2011 three of us made a trip to Everest Base Camp in Nepal. 

Rather than writing a travelogue – there are quite enough of those – I noted down themes; some amusing or poignant, some personal and emotional, and some just silly.  This means they do not have to be read (or written) in any particular order- which is a luxury for the writer and places no sense of obligation on the reader to start from page one and wade slavishly through page after page (or post after post) to the end. Rather dip in and enjoy!

Extract from fictional Trekking Guide - 

DAY 6 Namche Bazaar (3 440m) to Tengboche (3 860m) Phunki Tenga (3 250m), a little village located in the valley just below Tengboche for lunch. At this point the river which you bridge just prior to the two hour steep path to Tengboche is the colour of fresh peppermint.  The paths and the bridges are shared with Yaks carrying supplies and equipment north and returning to Lukla. You are advised to keep to the mountain side of the path when passing Yak trains.

On the route to Namche Bazaar the air is getting light in oxygen but heavy with Yak jokes. These are prompted by a mistaken explanation about a Sherpani lady carrying a cot on her back, Lavern thinking that the explanation was that she was carrying a baby Yak, and not a baby Sherpa. While we obviously did not check out the truth by stopping the lady and lifting the blanket off the cot, sense prevailed and it was admitted that a baby Sherpa was a more likely candidate than a baby Yak.

At the time I found this hysterically funny, and this potentially convoluted story demonstrates three important points.

• Sherpa’s seem to carry their young on their backs in rudimentary timber travelling cots slung from headbands, in stark contrast to the more familiar possum like blanket technique common for babies at home.
• Jokes about Yaks are a sorely untapped source of humour.
• As the air gets thinner stupid jokes are initially bone-shakingly funny but lose their zest very quickly

"The air is getting light in oxygen but heavy with Yak jokes." 

Lavern sees the funny side of a Yak 

Trawling my oxygen starved mind for possible Yaks allusions I wonder if female Yaks should be called  Yakettes, admittedly a tad misogynous - and anyway female Yaks are actually called “Naks” which is itself is another massively untapped source of humour. The fact that a Yak is not female provides an interesting frisson to ones enjoyment of Yak cheese, until you realise that Yak is in this sense used generically and that it really is Nak milk that is used to make the cheese and not other fluids . . . . and this is not a discourse that bares expanding upon.

Gratuitous picture if a handsome Yak passing in front 

of Tengboche Monastery

Juvenile Yaks should be called Yaklettes, but what one calls baby Yaks carried in wooden cribs on the back of Sherpa women is open to question. Yakines?

Unfortunately petty western commercialism has invaded the trinket industry (there should be no surprise there!), or rather the tee-shirt industry – which is as good as the same thing. This has meant that aside from the inevitable tee-shirts proclaiming “Nepal”, “Everest Base Camp”, or “Kathmandu” in a triumphalist been-there-done-that-got-the-tee-shirt sort of tone there are also acres of cloth that play on various Yak themes. “Yakkity Yak” is one that was no doubt screamingly funny when first heard, but when displayed in a variety of colours and in sizes ranging from BB (barely born) to EO (excessively obese) becomes just plain daft.

 

Another gratuitous picture of a contemplative 

Yak. The one behind , half out of the picture 

was wearing a baseball  hat with "Kiss-me-quick" 

embroidered on it.

We actually stayed in a Yak joke.

The well known Yak and Yeti Hotel is situated somewhere in deepest Kathmandu. It is very smart with an imposing lobby and many rooms. It boasts an outside swimming pool, underground gymnasium, clay tennis courts, an imposing baronial dining hall, a beauty salon, an expensive shopping precinct, and monotonous soporific music in the elevators. It is staffed by uniformed and delightfully obsequious doormen, attentive waiters, helpful porters and incredibly rude night desk staff. In short it is everything that you would expect from a world class 4½ star hotel. So why give it such a daft, not to say coy, name - The Yak and Yeti Hotel? To add insult to injured sensibilities someone has even etched a large footprint onto a rock near the garden entrance to the foyer and screwed a brass plaque to the rock explaining that this mysterious footprint had been “discovered” during the construction of the hotel extension. 

"We actually stayed in a Yak Joke". Daft Yeti footprint

Really! Stick to the “Empire”, or the “Grand”, even the “Sobbing Sherpa” – but please, not the “Yak and Yeti”!