Phewa Lake; What’s The Point?
I’ve never really understood people who write about small non-events that present no insight or relevance to anyone but themselves. Why do they waste the energy? It takes a lot less effort to blurt mindlessly about inconsequentialities than it does to come up with something fresh and discerning, of course, but it also perpetrates two of the greatest sins known to writing in the process: self-indulgence and the over-estimation of interest in one’s own life.
I’m ranting about this because I don’t want the words I’m about to commit to digital paper to be published without a signpost that very clearly states that what follows will happen once, and once only. It is a grievous wrong I am about to carry out, one which should be punished by no less then castration, but I’m going to go ahead and do it nonetheless, because I’m the writer and you can’t do anything about it. If you’re here for a literary tour de force, turn away now.
According to the movies, if a bomb explodes in close proximity to your person, you’ll either die or suffer a temporary less of senses and bearings (and, more than likely, a permanent loss of limbs). Your vision will bleach into whiteness, your hearing will go dead, and you’ll be far too dazed to register taste or smell; it’s like being frozen within a floating bubble of numbness.
Now imagine feeling like this without the balls of fire and flying debris, and instead as you’re sat, legs sprawled and back slumped, on the floor of a weathered rowing boat on the glistening surface of Phewa Lake in Nepal.
The sun was hot with the intensity of an electric hob, pressing on the pores of my skin until they each surrendered a drop of sweat, and penetrating my closed eyelids so they glowed a bright orangey red from within. The lazy ebb of the tide lulled and caressed our modest vessel, carrying us absent-mindedly wherever it pleased, tapping gently against the water to punctuate an otherwise-silent soundscape. We were absolutely alone.
Phewa Lake sits in the palm of Pokhara Valley, on the edges of Nepal’s second largest city and in the shadow of the iconic Machapuchare, also known as the Matterhorn of Nepal. It is a truly breathtaking setting, cradling in its centre Barahi Temple, a resolute bull’s-eye target for the various boats that scatter the water’s surface. We paid 400 rupees for 3 hours in our craft; it’s almost certainly the best thing I’ve ever parted with £3.65 for.
After spending two of those hours doing nothing more than breathing and letting our craft decide upon its own erratic course, I took a paddle and made for the island at the lake’s heart. While it wasn’t quite effortless, it was easy enough to work at while gazing at the surrounding wall of mountains whose slopes tumbled down to the water’s edge. The reward was spectacular too, a private patch of paradise floating in a seemingly faultless moment.
On this particular day, very few people seemed to be in Nepal. No one got in our way as we moored up against the island’s brim, no one crowded us as we wandered around the temple, no one hassled us as we made our way peacefully back across the lake, and no one noticed as we stepped back onto the bustling streets of Pokhara. It was relaxing; it was effortless; it was idyllic.
And that, quite simply, was it, an experience that was perhaps as close to absolute perfection as I’ve ever been, glorious to the point of ineffability for me, and irrelevant to the point of futility for you. But let this post be a testimony to the fact that some of the very finest moments in life – indeed, most of the very finest moments in life – have very little purpose or point, and are elegant in their simplicity. Just please, please don’t waste internet space writing about them.
Photography by Dey, miller99 and Oliphant
But surely your post is the very point. Maybe there will now be thousands of people flooding Pokhara and Lake Phewa trying to find that peace and tranquility you experienced. Something did happen and now you have shared with the world, others will also flock to see if it happens to them. That is the nature of being able to live your life in public and what seems a meaningless post that belongs to no-one else, suddenly becomes awe inspiring and meaningful to someone somewhere. A sort of mass experience sharing. It matters not that you feel the post is meaningless, if there are a few people that connect with it, then surely it has meaning. Keeping a diary in public is maybe a little odd, but doesn’t make it any less valuable. I for one on reading your post, was transported back to the banks of Lake Phewa, sat in a cafe drinking tea and looking out over the lake, watching boats do just as you describe. And was immersed in the sense of peace and calm I felt during the whole of my time in Nepal. Never underestimate the power of the written word however dull.