“I wonder how it will affect your general outlook when you return to Australia??
You are seeing, and living in, such a different world. Will Australia seem too trivial, smug and self-satisfied? Will all your friends, and your family, seem too materialistic and self-seeking?”
This came through on an email from my beloved Granny. She is an amazing woman, who has done a great deal for the community in her years as, among other things, Administrator’s wife, and MD of the YWCA in the Northern Territory. And as usual, she kind of hit on exactly the thing that I have been thinking about a lot as I spend some time in various developing countries across South America.
Its all about perspective, I decided, about half way up the first mountain pass on the Inca trail in Peru. The heights are breath-taking. Literally. Although relatively fit, and well acclimatised after months in Bogota, as we ascended to the first, and highest pass (about 4,200m), we found ourselves having to stop roughly every 90 seconds. We were carrying our own packs. Mine weighed about five or six kg. Not a huge amount in the scheme of things. As we ascended, the interval between breaks got shorter and shorter. To the point that we had to stop every half a minute or so to catch our breath.
Meanwhile, the Porters, skipped past us, up the mountain, mostly wearing thongs made from recycled tyres, mouths green from chewing on coca leaves. The Porters, who are aged from their thirties up to their mid-sixties (!!!) are employed to carry everything but our clothes – tents, food, shelter, oxygen tanks, first aid, cooking gear, chairs (god knows why you need a chair, when you get to camp all you want to do is lie down) and tables. A law was enacted a few years ago protecting the rights of these hardy fellows who now have their packs weighed at various check points along the path. The limit for each porter is 20kg – four times what I was carrying. Before the laws came in, most porters carried around 60kg. And they don’t have fancy backpacks, with padded straps for support. Most of them just bundle their stuff up on a big piece of hessian and tie it around their shoulders. Add a few ropes around the waist and they’re away. I found them (more than the coca leaves) to be the most useful motivation to get me to the top. Every time I started breathing heavily and could feel a whinge coming on, a porter would walk past. Head down, weighed down, absorbed in the task at hand. Not complaining, occasionally smiling (although they don’t offer much to the trekkers, we mostly seem to just be nuisances getting in the way.)
“How can they do this, every week!” I ask James, dumbfounded, that they can find it within their souls to get up and climb this beautiful, but bloody hard track again and again.
“It’s a good job, they get fed,” he shrugs, and so it is, if you are an uneducated Peruvian living in the foggy highlands.
We woke up on the last morning at 3.30am to climb down into Macchu Picchu. Despite the early start, the trekkers are excited. This is it. The moment we have been waiting for. Not only do we finally get to see the mystical city, but there is the promise of a shower and a hot springs session at the end. So far on the trek we have had perfect weather, it has not rained. It has not been foggy. We have had vistas of beautiful sun capped mountains and chased llamas and wild horses across sunny alpine fields.
We reach the sun gate, just as the sun should be coming up. The sun gate is the mythical place trekkers dream about getting to. It’s the spot where you can take the photos of Macchu Picchu that you see in all the postcards. The stony city sprawling out below you, while mountain peaks soar up around you. Only something’s wrong. There is no Macchu Picchu. There is just fog. Thick, dense, fog. Limiting visibility to about 2 metres.
I laugh, and shout ‘isn’t it beautiful?’ A few trekkers titter at my joke. It’s a shame, but hey, the rest of the trek was beautiful right? We’re going to climb into it and see it up-close. You buy a postcard if you want a snap of this view.
And then someone starts to cry. She is clearly Gen Y. English, a Lily Allen posh cockney accent (such an oxymoron). “We’ve come so far, and now we can’t even see it” she moans weepily. Around her, the porters stoically, uncomplainingly walk on, heaving their leaden packs. Thank god she was not in our group, or I would have given her a dressing down. I think, maybe smugly, how her travel has failed her. Why do we trek in the footsteps of ancients, pay good money to put ourselves through an arduous experience? Why do we explore other countries, and hunt desperately for authentic foreign experiences off ‘the gringo trail’? It’s about shifting our perspective. Making mental leaps and changing our viewpoint to see how other people live, to find out what we can learn from them. To experience a different way of living that forces us to think about our prospects and hopes and dreams differently. To shake us out of our comfortable developed lives. And to be weeping at the end of a fantastic trek because you can’t take your own postcard shot, is, I believe, a serious personal failure.
I am now in a little town called Taganga on the Caribbean Coast. Some hate it, some love it. I am in the latter group. It’s a fishing village that has sort of been overrun by backpackers, but at least they bring with it creature comforts like real coffee and vegetables. And the local flavour definitely still exists in spades. It storms every afternoon (rainy season) and the streets turn into rivers and wash away. All the cats hide under piles of rubble and the dogs howl at the thunder. The lightning quite often sets the mountain on fire.
I have been spending the afternoons volunteering with a local organisation called Fundacion Mariposas Amarillas. They run after-school activities with kids in some of the poorest barrios in Santa Marta. The kids are crazy. With very little discipline, they run around, steal pencils, draw on the walls, throw things and scream at each other. But they’re grateful (I think) for the time that these adults are putting into them.
I spent an hour last Thursday teaching a 13 year old simple arithmetic (jury’s out on if I did her a disservice or not with my poor Spanish!) She was so grateful to be learning – something that her parents can’t afford to get her. It feels nice to be offering something back to these people, no matter how minor my contribution. Later, back in our apartment, James and I spent the evening going through a bridal registry website, choosing various things for our future marital home.
“Oh god, I definitely NEED a butter dish. We’ve needed one of those for a long time!” I exclaim, delighted to click on the icon for a ceramic butter dish at the special Peters of Kensington price of $16. And then I pause, horrified at myself. I look around. We are basically living in a glorified caravan. It’s a cement floored single room We have gas, and occasional electricity. I have two saucepans, a wooden spoon, a few chipped plates, three teacups, and a fridge. I am more content than I have been in a very long time, and I certainly have a great deal more than the little girl I worked with in the afternoon, and yet I still find myself actually getting enthusiastic about a butter dish. So maybe I need to spend a bit more time working on my own perspective shift.
This worries me, as I am one of those people who spend a lot of time thinking about how I can live a better, more sustainable life. I know the world’s resources are finite. I watched a TED talk by a Jason Clay, Vice president of the WWF the other day. He gave the frightening statistic that a cat in Europe has a bigger ecological footprint than a person in Sub-Saharan Africa. I know we all need to consume less, and having lived with less, I know it doesn’t impact on my happiness or contentment at all. But if I can still get stirred by a butter dish, imagine what some of my more superficial friends are like?
I think perspective can help to an extent with this. And I am sad to disappoint my wise old Granny, but I can’t do it alone. As a spoilt, western DINK with high disposable income, I am too conditioned to be able to easily escape my need for ostentatious consumption, (yes, a butter dish is a needless luxury). Our own individual perspective shifts can only take us so far. The corporate world needs to embrace, and thus push, a culture of less consumption. Find ways to make their activities sustainable, because we lowly individuals can-not be trusted.
Jason Clay, and the WWF have the right idea. Rather than engage with individuals to save biodiversity, they are going directly to the big corporations. Asking them to work together. Making companies agree on green initiatives so that sustainability is above competition. Because as any behavioural economist will tell you, and I have proved by my passion for butter dishes, humans can not be trusted to make the best decisions.