Surfing: an Introduction

The first morning after our arrival in Bali, we ran to the beach in a frenzy of excitement, quickly hiring boards and slapping on a cursory layer of suncream. The minute that followed revealed a number of unwelcome truths:

1. The board they give you to learn on is approximately twice your height and three times your weight. You are leashed to this monolith with a piece of cable and some Velcro.

2. Getting this board to the water’s edge requires Herculean strength.

3. I’m scared of the sea, specifically:
a. The waves (enormous)
b. The undertow (vicious)
c. Good surfers (might blast past, impaling me on the point of their boards)
d. Bad surfers (might lose control and lose their boards in the vicinity of my face)
e. Water getting into my goggles and stinging my eyes

The weight of these truths caused me to exit the sea approximately 60 seconds after first entering it. With a quivering lip and goggles beginning to fill with the hot tears of shame, I stayed on the sand while Joe hastily found me a boogie-board. Clinging tightly to my piece of foam I managed to catch a few waves without drowning. Meanwhile, Joe leapt fearlessly into the surf and found his sea legs almost immediately and cut a fine figure as he blasted towards the shore .

4 days later...

Since writing the above, some progress has been made. I have been upgraded to a proper surfboard and have on about 2 occasions stood up on it for a bit. One of the reasons surfing is so tricky is that it makes several different bits of you hurt. Here is a summary of the body parts which are currently causing me grief:

1. Thumbs. These get blistered. Or at least mine do, Joe’s are fine. No idea why, possibly it’s from gripping the board too tightly as a result of paralytic fear.

2. Torso. After the first day, we both found our torsos had been scratched raw in some places from rubbing continually against the roughly waxed boards. Further damage has been prevented by the acquisition of rash vests, but it still hurts.

3. Knees. These are scratched and sore, again from the board rubbing.

4. Arms. These ache royally as a result of hours spent trying to hoist my body from a lying-down-on-your-front-being-scratched-position to a surfer-dude-upright-standing-position.

5. Front of body. In order to get far enough out to sea to surf, you must first walk/swim/drag yourself and your board through about 18 waves of increasing size and strength. This is akin to being ambushed constantly by an enraged gorilla and the constant pummelling is very tiring.

6. Head. The bigger waves make it harder to keep a firm grip on your board. Sometimes it slips out of your hands, rises up with the wave then bonks you squarely on the head.

In spite of this catalogue of aches and pains, surfing is, annoyingly, rather fun. So I expect we’ll be putting ourselves through the mill for as long as it takes to stop being rubbish (in my case) and start being offered sponsorship deals (in Joes).

Ski Trekking Part Two

Before we set out on our ski/trek expedition I had a number of misgivings. It is generally known that the best bit about skiing is the going down bit. The going up bit is mostly quite dull: a chance to sit back with your skis dangling below, take in some views, chat, and possibly eat snacks. Hiking up a mountain face in full ski gear is not my idea of fun. However, I was assured that there was a mere hour trek up to the camp, then only a bit further before the skiing could start.

At 8am we were met by a jeep and introduced to Ranu, our guide for the day, Arun, our porter and Ranu 2, our driver. The drive up to the snow line took about an hour. We followed the river Beas for some of the way, passing tiny villages swathed in apple blossom. The principal export in Manali and the surrounding area is apples – they’re sold all over india – and now it’s spring the trees are in full bloom. As we crawled gradually higher, we began to pass small wooden shacks on the side of the road, each offering rack-fulls of the finest synthetic one-piece ski suits ever to grace the backs of chic 1980s alpine skiers.

Once we ran out of road, the jeep parked up and we changed into our own incredibly out-moded ski gear. Arun set off with our lunch things, my skis, boots and other supplies and Joe, Ranu and I began the ascent to camp. I had been expecting a gentle pig-track-up-to-Snowdon type walk, so was deeply upset to find we were immediately hiking up a steep, muddy, snowy and sometimes icy incline. Joe tripped merrily ahead with Ranu, swapping snowboard stories and taking in the views, while I heaved and grunted my way up some distance behind, cursing darkly and using ski poles to haul myself up.


We reached camp after about an hour and my dark mood was treated with several cups of chai and some biscuits. We chatted with some of the others who were just getting up and having breakfast, including a girl who’d had to retreat back to camp the previous day after crippling altitude sickness. She didn’t look at all well. Feeling a bit nervous, but in slightly better spirits, we set off with Arun and Ranu to begin the second ascent. At no point did anyone mention the precise extend of this climb. I was given to believe it would be about half an hour. Five hours later, I realised I had been cruelly tricked into climbing right to the bloody top of the mountain. Getting to the summit was tough going. It was extremely steep, with long patches of deep, slushy snow. Despite the altitude it was outrageously hot and even above 3000 metres we were harangued by flies. We took lots of stops, drank water frequently but every step was painful. By the time we reached the top, we were at 4250 metres. At this point the only thing less attractive than skiing down the mountain was walking back down so I wearily clipped on my skies and tried to ignore Joe who was scampering about like a child on Christmas morning in his retro ESF outfit.


It was an interesting decent.

Joe, in his element, dived straight in whilst I found that my thin racing skis sank slowly and sadly into the slush. Sinking and falling into waist high slush became the motif of my decent, so much so that I tunnelled rather than skied down. Ranu, a qualified instructor as well as a guide, was helpful but his tips were ultimately futile as over and over again I collapsed spectacularly into various wet holes of my own making. After a while I sort of got into it and therefore sort of began to enjoy myself. It was at least an hour before we finally spotted camp, and Joe made his entrance by hurling himself off a jump someone had made among the tents. I made my way down more sedately and almost cried to find there was hot chai, soup and pancakes waiting for us.

There was a bit more of a ski down, then we hiked in wet mud back to the jeep and back down to Manali. It was an oddly exhilarating day, challenging, painful, but absolutely the sort of adventure we imagined we’d be having when we started planning this trip.

Joe’s final thought
After the initial accent to the base camp Laura was actually enjoying the walk to the summit. Laura was the 4th person to make it to the top only beat by an American forest fire fighter, our guide Ranu and myself (I ran the last bit which was a mistake at 4000+ meters). I can’t deny the ski down was not exactly the finest run I’ve ever done, but certainly an experience surfing knee deep slush, hopping patches of mud and swallowing flies. Next stop the Andes.

Goodbye Les Arcs

After finishing off my season in Les Arc with Skiworld, I am now preparing to head off to the land of Dehli belly and nan bread breakfasts with my lovely girlfirend Laura. My time in Les Arc was a rather chaotic series of counciling sessions for chalet hosts and resort reps combined with my actual job of resort accountant and then when I managed to get some free time I'd popped out for a quick run through the fun park to scare myself so much that I forgot about the intense hardship that the chalet hosts and reps had to endure on a daily basis - talking to guests taking them ski guiding and many other hidious tasks.

Almost nothing has been planned for the trip except that we have booked flights to New Dehli for the middle of March and are keen to do some serious relaxing and then maybe once the relaxing has been fully maximised then perhaps do some of the touristy stuff like buy rugs woven by children who should be in school and almost certainly are getting paid in chick-pea flour.

Everyone I speak to is saying the same thing: that when you arrrive in Dehli we will experience the biggest culture shocks of our lifes. There is poverty on every corner, people sleeping on dusty curb sides and smells are so intense it is like sticking you nose inside a cows third stomach. Laura & myself will attempt to capture these sights and smells in this blog, so maybe one day Skiworld chalet hosts will realise that the hardship of changeover day isn't so bad after all..

All for now.

Joe XX