Of Dirt and Ambivalence

If given the option, I would always choose travelling by train over any other form of travel. It's said to be a 'romantic' means of transport - whatever exactly people mean by that. I suppose that its old-fashioned and comfortable when compared to travelling by plane or car. Though there's nothing old-fashioned about modern electric trains that dash at near 300km/h through the French countryside. Perhaps people refer to this travel as romantic due to the now exorbitant cost for a regional ticket - surely only the wealthy can afford the luxury of romance. Its a wonder then why the rich have fewer children when compared to the poor. Though I suppose children aren't considered synonymous with romance.

One practical reason why I enjoy train travel so much is because it is easy. The train drops you right in the centre of town. You get to take time out of the hustle and bustle of sightseeing to sit and enjoy the scenery of towers that zip by, barely on a map. I enjoy looking out the window so incredibly much. You enter that peaceful, retrospective mood that is so rare to find now. The other time I chased this feeling was on long regional drives, when you brain goes into autopilot and all you have to do is follow the white lines on the highway.

The scenery on the Mont Blanc Express as we travelled the long way around Lake Geneva, though the Swiss & French Alps was shocking. The mountains so tall you had to crane you neck to see their summits. Its odd the times you feel the slap of cultural difference - I felt it acutely while looking out the window of the tourist train. I'm used to sea and desert and bush. Australia is so glorious and weathered and flat-a land of sweeping plains. Having mountains looming over me, and their peaks so bare and sharp. Nothing rounded and softened by millennia. In the grand scheme of the continents and their shift, these montains are reasonably new. Imposing.

Another thought I had while our train meandered through the valleys was how much wood was used in the houses. Cute little Swiss gingerbread houses, complete with heart-shaped window frames. We were surrounded by pine trees and steep slopes - bushfires travel fastest up hills as the heat rises. I suppose the Alps are yet to see a bushfire. We were told that the distinct change in terrain and flora as you look higher up the mountain is due to it taking about a decade for the trees and grasses to grow after the snow and ice receeds for good. The mountains may be new for a content, but the treeline has extended in a lifetime.

Chamonix, the French Alp holiday town on the base of Mont Blanc was wondeful. After an hour or two the montains felt less threatening and a thing of pure awe and beauty. We bought expensive sightseeing tickets and took the cable car up Mt Brévent, opposite Mt Blanc.

At 2.5km up, Mt Blanc towered another two km higher than us, and covered in snow and glaciers. The next day when we reached the summit of another mountain neighbouring Mt Blanc, Aiguille Du Midi, we could feel the thin air and altitude. There was snow and biting
winds around us. And still Mt Blanc was above us, in the clouds.

I wonder if - or when - there will be a time that Mt Blanc will no longer be covered in white snow, even in summer. I wonder if we will change its name to 'the-sometimes-Mt Blanc', or the 'Mt Green'. Or perhaps the name will become a legend. A story we tell our children of a time not-so-long-ago when that grey topped mountain was perpetually white.

The last big tourist pull was a visit to Mer de Glace - the largest glacier in the area. I was very excited to see a glacier, and this one was dug out so you can walk inside it. Imagine walking inside an ancient, slowly moving frozen river!

The restaurant we ate fondue for dinner had pieces of twisted metal adorning the walls. The metal were from an old plane that crashed into a glacier in the 1950s and had only recently become accessible as the glacier melted due to global warming. Melting ice and melting Savoy cheese.

The tourist train to Mer De Glace was busy. Aparently around 400,000 tourists visit the Glacier in a year. We arrived to an old hotel and a tourist center under construction. The glacier was incredibly underwhelming from the viewing deck. Covered in dirt it was difficult to tell what was glacier and what was riverbank. We walked along scaffolded staircases, trooping down to enter the glacier. From what I'd read about the trip to the glacier, you were supposed to pass signposts that are placed annually at the end of the glacier to show how much it has receeded. I didn't see any of these signposts in the new staircase build. Perhaps the walk from the original hotel down to the glacier had got so long it was time for them to just construct a new entry point, for the ease of the tourists. I guess we were there to see the glacier, not the dirt where it used to be.

As we approached, the glacier became more obvious. There were white sheets covering it like a canvas roof - perhaps to keep the heat of the sun from the entrance. And then I saw the entrance. I was expecting this visit to be difficult but profound. Climate change already terrifies me to my core and makes me want to scream at humankind to pull our bloody heads in and change this capitalistic hell-scape of climate catastrophy. The ceiling of the entrance of the glacier was dripping water. Steams of it. Ancient water - older than the mountain tree line - dripping like rain on the heads of the tourists. And the tourists were not terrified at this. They were touching the walls. Taking selfies. One kid kicked the dugout walls of water. Some people had their dog on a lead in the glacier.

My eyes burned then started streaming like this poor ancient being around me. I wanted to scream and sob but was suddenly so aware of my hot breath and body heat. I hid my face in my scarf out of embrassment and to dispurse my exhale. This should not be a place for tourists. This should not be a place humans should go. My steps squelched on the flooring as I walked further in, the part of me thinking this visit to a diminishing glacier as a privilege quickly replaced by intense feeling of shame, guilt, and anger.

The glacier of ambivalence. What have we done to this poor, poor planet. And when will we wake up and do something about it?
As we left the now fast moving water of the glacier behind and entered the French
summer-the hottest 12 months on record. James reminded me that France - and a lot of Europe - have made tremendous steps toward a carbon neutral future. Australia is the country considering dropping out of the Paris agreement. There used to be a coal-fuelled steam train that would take you to Mer de Glace, and now its electric. The new tourist centre will show the history of the Glacier and its uncertain future. The sun and heat is probably making the glacier melt faster than the hot human bodies inside.

The drops of glacier water stained my jumper as we waited for the train back to Chamonix. 500 year old water - or maybe older. Older than human memory but not as old as the continents. Flowing too fast. 'Mer de Glacé' means 'sea of ice' in French - but the ancient water is flowing far too fast toward sea-level. I suppose the cycle of water is to evaporate into the sky to fall back to Earth.

I hope in my time on this Earth, nearing the end of humankind, I can say I tried. I did what I could for these ancient bodies, despite our ambivelance. I prodded the water droplets with my finger as they evaporated in the alpine heat and stepped on the train.Les mer