Ok I've decided to complete writing about India. It's been nearly two months since I've returned and I've seriously neglected my legion of blog fans, who have been salivating expectedly over how this story ends. I'm going to do this in "typefast" or rather "skimming over the details because they're not so clear to me now."
I left Manali after doing more of the same and rode down to Kasol. There, I spent a few days lounging in the Green Valley restaurant reading and smoking. In my treehouse guesthouse I spoke with an Israeli jesus lookalike who explained to me the fundamental connection beween hinduism, jusdaism, and all the other isms plus christianity and I thought he was objectively intersting until i realized i was being converted. I took a bong rip and slipped back into reality.
I took off for Melana, a village on a hill famous for it's "melana cream" and for its strange melana people. The walk up from where I'd parked my bike took two hours of nonstop stair climbing. I burned more calories in two hours than I could of on a treadmill for two days. A young boy lead the way, all the way to his father's guesthouse.
I ended up staying there, the food being rather bad but the room pretty nice. The view was absolutely stunning from the roof of this place. A bench, on a roof, with 360 degree view of gorgeous green mountains. the weather was also perfect. Two Israeli's joined me at the guesthouse and we commenced major nonstop chillum hits. We bought a gangload of genuine melana cream from the owner and remained in a state of serious highness for a four days. We played poker, ate parantha with nutella, read books, gazed aimlessly and slept a lot. The two guys were students at Tel Aviv University on a month long India journey, having been here before, and coming back only for the Melana Cream and Kasol.
I took a walk a couple times through the village itself, and was stunned by how closely the reality of this place resembled the stories I had heard of it. The kids and people were filthy, the houses made of rotting wood and covered with bushels of grass for the winter. The dirty kids jumped out of the road when I came through, believing, as the parents had told them, that they were "holy people" not to be soiled by foreigners. Signs read "do not touch anything or anybody" and "stay on the path" etc. Fine 2000 Ruppees. I went to the shop to by some chocolate to feed my munchies, and had to point to what i wanted from the outside. The owner than put my stuff in a bag and placed it on the floor for me to pick up. Everybody was looking at me with an aura of superiority, as if they knew something about me that I didn't. I tried hard to think why these people could possibly believe themselves to be holy, and how they could look at me and feel they were in a better position, living here among the cow dung, the dirty water. I'll give them the pristine natural wilderness and the great ganga, but c'mon. Anyways they've been working on building a road to this village so that it's no longer reachable only by five thousand stairs, adn once that's finished the whole culture will meet its doom, i'm told, as visitors flock from abroad and outsiders come to trade and live here.
I left Melana and Kasol thoroughly in love with India and wondering why I was leaving to go back to the modern world. I rode the bike down to Delhi but stopped in Chandigarh, a "modern" city in India and the capital of Himachal. The city reminded me of Brazilia, the capital of Brazil, and it was actually designed by the same idiot european architect. The city is straight line grid of ugly neighborhoods. It's something out of 1984, filled with Seikhs, absolutely lacking in everything that's wonderful about India. The restaurants are aweful, the vibe is constipated and tight, the weather humid, the wind lacking, the streets congested, is their anything positive? no.
I left and cruised down to Delhi a week from departure. In Delhi I ran into old friends, returned the motorcycle and managed to not pay anything extra, bought gifts, walked around, tried to inhale every cubic ounce of delhi air so as not to forget, took some pictures, was disgusted by the heat, and left to the airport. I just summed up a week in three lines, but honestly theres not much to say about Delhi that was different from the first time around.
I am now back in Israel. I've been here for two months and I've started business school. I am in a relationship with the girl I met in India, and I may or may not continue writing in this blog. I have a feeling I'll be in India again.
Friday, November 23, 2007
Thursday, October 4, 2007
Manali Third Time
So as I was saying, after we got our luggage we took a room in Vashisht, a small village located about 10 k from Manali on a hill overlooking the river. We were lucky to get a corner room with large windows and an amazing view. Anastia had only two days left before departing for Delhi, from where she was to take a plane back to Israel on September 2. My flight back was two weeks after on Sept. 18.
I found Olik back in Manali, angry that I had flaked on our plans for Nepal, but admitted that the fault was mainly his as he hadn't arrived from Leh on time for departure. Anastia and I had grown quite close during our trip and spent our last days together wandering around Vashisht, lounging in random hippie cafes serving all kinds of Israeli food like shakshuka, sabich, and malawah, as well as meeting up with Adrien who had fallen ill with a fever, probably his body's reaction to the shock of coming so close to serious injury or even death. My bike needed tending to, but I decided to wait until Anastia had left. I saw her off at the bus station in Manali where she caught a sleeper bus to Delhi, a 14 hour bus ride.
After she left I moved my stuff back to Manali and took a room in the Mount Diew guesthouse where Olik was staying with new friends. I spent another five days in Manali, mostly with him, and some other quite ordinary folks from Israel, recuperating from the demanding Spiti-Kinnaur adventure, fixing my bike and preparing it for the trip back to Delhi, and reading. Olik had decided that he wanted to get a bike on which to continue the journey, and that the perfect idea would be take up my lease since my trip was over in two weeks. I said this was fine with me but that he'd have to wait two weeks. He said he couldnt wait and decided to buy a bike instead along with his friend who was continuing with him on another bike to Nepal. Suffice it say that they bought horrible bikes and definitely got ripped off, and whats worse they bought it from a mechanic with a reputation for swapping original parts for generic ones. Because they were impatient and wanted to leave within a few days, they decided to risk it, something I urged them not to do. I told them to find a better bike from a mechanic who'd been recommended to me, but they wouldnt listen. I just hope they didnt get stuck somewhere on the extremely long journey to Nepal.
The mechanic who's been recommended to me was in Vashisht, by the name of Anu, and I needed to fix the oil leak as well as the other problems, which he, after a quick look, attributed to a manufacturing defect in this model of Enfield that no one but an expert in the Thunderbird model could know about. They fixed this defect within an hour, and after lubing up some other parts and tightening other ones, the bike was running perfectly. If only I could have fixed this problem before Spiti-Kinnaur I would have saved myself and anastia a lot of headache, but of course things never happen that way and lessons must be learned. While I was at the mechanic we all witnessed the horrible scene of a cat getting run over by a car and writhing in the street for at least 45 seconds before succumbing.
What else happened in Manali? Nothing of serious note, just relaxing, getting a massage, buying some gifts, eating well, smoking a lot, coming to terms with going home, and figuring out how I was going to spend the next two weeks. I was being urged to go with Olik and his new group to Rishikish, but since I had already been there I declined. I met a guy named Avi who I also spend some time with, we visited some waterfalls near Vashisht together where a very crazy baba smoked a tiny chillum under the falls and coughed grotesquely. He had also bought a bike from the same corrupted mechanic, and we decided to head down to Kasol together, before I'd continue on to Pushkar for a week. We even made plans with some other friends but I ended up traveling alone to Kasol because we realized that Avi, though he had recieved the bike, did not actually know how to ride it, being that the gears were on the wrong side and he was having difficulty starting it. He needed a few days to get used to the Enfield and I couldnt wait. We agreed to meet in Parvati.
I found Olik back in Manali, angry that I had flaked on our plans for Nepal, but admitted that the fault was mainly his as he hadn't arrived from Leh on time for departure. Anastia and I had grown quite close during our trip and spent our last days together wandering around Vashisht, lounging in random hippie cafes serving all kinds of Israeli food like shakshuka, sabich, and malawah, as well as meeting up with Adrien who had fallen ill with a fever, probably his body's reaction to the shock of coming so close to serious injury or even death. My bike needed tending to, but I decided to wait until Anastia had left. I saw her off at the bus station in Manali where she caught a sleeper bus to Delhi, a 14 hour bus ride.
After she left I moved my stuff back to Manali and took a room in the Mount Diew guesthouse where Olik was staying with new friends. I spent another five days in Manali, mostly with him, and some other quite ordinary folks from Israel, recuperating from the demanding Spiti-Kinnaur adventure, fixing my bike and preparing it for the trip back to Delhi, and reading. Olik had decided that he wanted to get a bike on which to continue the journey, and that the perfect idea would be take up my lease since my trip was over in two weeks. I said this was fine with me but that he'd have to wait two weeks. He said he couldnt wait and decided to buy a bike instead along with his friend who was continuing with him on another bike to Nepal. Suffice it say that they bought horrible bikes and definitely got ripped off, and whats worse they bought it from a mechanic with a reputation for swapping original parts for generic ones. Because they were impatient and wanted to leave within a few days, they decided to risk it, something I urged them not to do. I told them to find a better bike from a mechanic who'd been recommended to me, but they wouldnt listen. I just hope they didnt get stuck somewhere on the extremely long journey to Nepal.
The mechanic who's been recommended to me was in Vashisht, by the name of Anu, and I needed to fix the oil leak as well as the other problems, which he, after a quick look, attributed to a manufacturing defect in this model of Enfield that no one but an expert in the Thunderbird model could know about. They fixed this defect within an hour, and after lubing up some other parts and tightening other ones, the bike was running perfectly. If only I could have fixed this problem before Spiti-Kinnaur I would have saved myself and anastia a lot of headache, but of course things never happen that way and lessons must be learned. While I was at the mechanic we all witnessed the horrible scene of a cat getting run over by a car and writhing in the street for at least 45 seconds before succumbing.
What else happened in Manali? Nothing of serious note, just relaxing, getting a massage, buying some gifts, eating well, smoking a lot, coming to terms with going home, and figuring out how I was going to spend the next two weeks. I was being urged to go with Olik and his new group to Rishikish, but since I had already been there I declined. I met a guy named Avi who I also spend some time with, we visited some waterfalls near Vashisht together where a very crazy baba smoked a tiny chillum under the falls and coughed grotesquely. He had also bought a bike from the same corrupted mechanic, and we decided to head down to Kasol together, before I'd continue on to Pushkar for a week. We even made plans with some other friends but I ended up traveling alone to Kasol because we realized that Avi, though he had recieved the bike, did not actually know how to ride it, being that the gears were on the wrong side and he was having difficulty starting it. He needed a few days to get used to the Enfield and I couldnt wait. We agreed to meet in Parvati.
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
Chandar Tal
We turned off the main road and headed for Chandar Tal at about 7:30. Darkness fell fast as the dirt road narrowed. We had been warned that this side trip to CT was one of the most dangerous roads in Spiti-Lahaul, and the reason, it became clear to me, was the slope of the road, which actually sloped downwards cliff-sides. The surface itself was sandy and rocky, and with the downwards slope, the bike had a tendency to slip sideways towards the open cliff. Because it was night, this was all the more frightening because I couldn't determine how high the cliff was, and assumed that I if we veered too far right we could plunge thousands and thousands of meters into a violent river below. I steered the bike slowly, trying to remain as close to the mountain side of the road as possible, but because of the slope, the bike would keep sliding. I had to keep both feet on the ground, and we continued forwards very slowly, moving carefully around sharp rocks, and crossing some slippery mud zones. What was actually a 10 kilometer road took us at least four hours. Towards the end the road disappeared completely, and when we caught up with Adrien, we spent an hour trying to locate the lake itself. Adrien had a breakdown around this time also but managed to keep on with his bike slowly after adjusting some electrical wires. We were all quite shaken up and exhausted by the precarious journey and were relieved to finally find the lake, a full moon shining brightly upon it.
Adriend stayed in a teastall tent while Anastia and I got a rundown two person tent in which we froze all night long. In the morning we socialized with three Spaniards in their 40's mountainbiking the whole of Spiti and planning on continuing on to Leh via Rhotang Pass with their ultra-high tech $8000 bikes. I was scolded by a trek guide whilst doing some laundry in the stream with simple detergent that could and would apparently harm the local fish population. Anastia and I walked around the magnificent lake surrounded completely by snowcapped peaks of 6000 meters, and Anastia even took a full-bodied dip in the lake, obviously protected by her natural russian body suit. I declined.
We left Chandar Tal at 2pm with Adrien, and continued onto more unstable roadways, crossing some serious landslide areas and mighty rivers. The journey was slow due to the huge boulders and rocks strewn all along the road and the dust flying up everywhere, but suffice it to say that we were in Lahaul Valley now, the most beautiful place on teh Spiti-Kinnaur circuit, comparable even to the vistas of Leh: Huge green fuzzy mountainsides strewn with gigantic boulders, flocks and flocks of sheep and goats, and a very mighty river running through it all. What increased the beauty of this area was the complete lack of cars, people, villages. Even the most nomadic of peoples hadn't settled this area, except of course, for a few shepards. There are no villages between Losar and Rhotang Pass, and our final stop for the night was Chatru, basically a group of tents for passing tourists. Before Chatru we stopped at Chota Daba for a half hour where Adrien ended up staying in a tent with the mountaineer from Kaza and an old Englishman, and Anastia nearly fell down a steep cliff when we went to to check out the impressive Lahaul river.
In Chatru we ate dinner in a Dhaba with one of the Spaniards who continued on alone after an argument with his friends, and he told us about his furniture import/export business between India and Spain and his dysfunctional relationship with his former wife. We couldnt believe this athletic specimen who had just rode the most difficult road in India on a bike in the same amount of time we did on an Enfield was 40 yrs old. he slept with us in a dilapidated wood structure with metal beds without mattresses and tarantulas crawling the walls. It wasn't hard to sleep though after the day's challenging journey. Oh yea at one of the notorious river crossings my leg nearly got caught between the wheel and a rock, so I'm lucky that I'm still walking!
The next day we continued on to Rhotang Pass via more of the most amazing landscape in the world, thankful for the beautiful weather we were having here and for most of the previous two weeks. We finally reached Rhotang after passing this valley and that pass, and I this junction itself was familiar to me as I had reached it from Leh less than a month earlier. We continued to the pass itself, my third time being here (last time from Leh it was immersed in a giant cloud) and started the descent into Manali. Of course we wouldnt make it without a final unlucky incident.
At the same muddy zone where I had nearly fallen off the cliff a few weeks before coming back from Leh and where my bike had slipped a few times, the road was now drier. But again semi's were stuck and Adrien who was riding ahead, tried to pass one on the cliff-side of the road. Now we were behind and sitting in traffic, Anastia went ahead to see what was causing the hold up and came running back shouting that Adrien had fallen off the cliff! I was momentarily shocked, and the bike fell over as I hastened to get off and see what she was talking about. I ran up 100 meters ahead and saw a bunch of Indian drivers looking over off to the side of the road, and there, 20 meters down, was Adrien standing next to his bike which had got caught in a tree!! He was on the cliff-side of the road, and was trying to get back onto the road when the earth crumbled from beneath him! somehow he had managed to jump off the bike and roll away without bumping his head one a jagged rock, and his bike tumbled down and was stopped by the trunk of this tree. I couldn't believe what had happened, and more, that Adrien appeared unhurt, even amused, and his bike also seemed relatively intact. I ran down to him and he was blabbering about needing to get the bike back onto the road while I questioned him about his injuries and about saying how fucking crazy this is! Being the manly and cocky englishman that he is he insisted that he was fine, that this was nothing, and that all we had to do was get the bike 20 meters up onto the road and continue down to Manali where we'd have Chai like nothing had happened at all.
I couldn't argue with a man who had just grazed death, and with the help of 10 indian men and a rope, we pushed the bike up the muddy slope onto the road, me on the back end pushing with every last shaken muscle in my body. I was sure this was impossible to do, but somehow we got the bike onto the road, and after only 15 minutes of thanks and tipping the indians, we were off to Manali. I couldnt believe this whole incident, but was grateful that nobody got hurt. I was slighly upset that Adrien was so non-chalant about the whole thing. Apparently motorcyclists are often overly masculine and unwilling to admit their dumb mistakes, especially the 33 yr old ex-currency trader types who are out to pursue their safari greatness after spending way too much time in a London office.
Back in Manali we had Chai like nothing had happened, and Anastia and I took a guestroom in Vashist after picking up the luggage we had left in Diew Guesthouse in Manali. We made it!!!
Adriend stayed in a teastall tent while Anastia and I got a rundown two person tent in which we froze all night long. In the morning we socialized with three Spaniards in their 40's mountainbiking the whole of Spiti and planning on continuing on to Leh via Rhotang Pass with their ultra-high tech $8000 bikes. I was scolded by a trek guide whilst doing some laundry in the stream with simple detergent that could and would apparently harm the local fish population. Anastia and I walked around the magnificent lake surrounded completely by snowcapped peaks of 6000 meters, and Anastia even took a full-bodied dip in the lake, obviously protected by her natural russian body suit. I declined.
We left Chandar Tal at 2pm with Adrien, and continued onto more unstable roadways, crossing some serious landslide areas and mighty rivers. The journey was slow due to the huge boulders and rocks strewn all along the road and the dust flying up everywhere, but suffice it to say that we were in Lahaul Valley now, the most beautiful place on teh Spiti-Kinnaur circuit, comparable even to the vistas of Leh: Huge green fuzzy mountainsides strewn with gigantic boulders, flocks and flocks of sheep and goats, and a very mighty river running through it all. What increased the beauty of this area was the complete lack of cars, people, villages. Even the most nomadic of peoples hadn't settled this area, except of course, for a few shepards. There are no villages between Losar and Rhotang Pass, and our final stop for the night was Chatru, basically a group of tents for passing tourists. Before Chatru we stopped at Chota Daba for a half hour where Adrien ended up staying in a tent with the mountaineer from Kaza and an old Englishman, and Anastia nearly fell down a steep cliff when we went to to check out the impressive Lahaul river.
In Chatru we ate dinner in a Dhaba with one of the Spaniards who continued on alone after an argument with his friends, and he told us about his furniture import/export business between India and Spain and his dysfunctional relationship with his former wife. We couldnt believe this athletic specimen who had just rode the most difficult road in India on a bike in the same amount of time we did on an Enfield was 40 yrs old. he slept with us in a dilapidated wood structure with metal beds without mattresses and tarantulas crawling the walls. It wasn't hard to sleep though after the day's challenging journey. Oh yea at one of the notorious river crossings my leg nearly got caught between the wheel and a rock, so I'm lucky that I'm still walking!
The next day we continued on to Rhotang Pass via more of the most amazing landscape in the world, thankful for the beautiful weather we were having here and for most of the previous two weeks. We finally reached Rhotang after passing this valley and that pass, and I this junction itself was familiar to me as I had reached it from Leh less than a month earlier. We continued to the pass itself, my third time being here (last time from Leh it was immersed in a giant cloud) and started the descent into Manali. Of course we wouldnt make it without a final unlucky incident.
At the same muddy zone where I had nearly fallen off the cliff a few weeks before coming back from Leh and where my bike had slipped a few times, the road was now drier. But again semi's were stuck and Adrien who was riding ahead, tried to pass one on the cliff-side of the road. Now we were behind and sitting in traffic, Anastia went ahead to see what was causing the hold up and came running back shouting that Adrien had fallen off the cliff! I was momentarily shocked, and the bike fell over as I hastened to get off and see what she was talking about. I ran up 100 meters ahead and saw a bunch of Indian drivers looking over off to the side of the road, and there, 20 meters down, was Adrien standing next to his bike which had got caught in a tree!! He was on the cliff-side of the road, and was trying to get back onto the road when the earth crumbled from beneath him! somehow he had managed to jump off the bike and roll away without bumping his head one a jagged rock, and his bike tumbled down and was stopped by the trunk of this tree. I couldn't believe what had happened, and more, that Adrien appeared unhurt, even amused, and his bike also seemed relatively intact. I ran down to him and he was blabbering about needing to get the bike back onto the road while I questioned him about his injuries and about saying how fucking crazy this is! Being the manly and cocky englishman that he is he insisted that he was fine, that this was nothing, and that all we had to do was get the bike 20 meters up onto the road and continue down to Manali where we'd have Chai like nothing had happened at all.
I couldn't argue with a man who had just grazed death, and with the help of 10 indian men and a rope, we pushed the bike up the muddy slope onto the road, me on the back end pushing with every last shaken muscle in my body. I was sure this was impossible to do, but somehow we got the bike onto the road, and after only 15 minutes of thanks and tipping the indians, we were off to Manali. I couldnt believe this whole incident, but was grateful that nobody got hurt. I was slighly upset that Adrien was so non-chalant about the whole thing. Apparently motorcyclists are often overly masculine and unwilling to admit their dumb mistakes, especially the 33 yr old ex-currency trader types who are out to pursue their safari greatness after spending way too much time in a London office.
Back in Manali we had Chai like nothing had happened, and Anastia and I took a guestroom in Vashist after picking up the luggage we had left in Diew Guesthouse in Manali. We made it!!!
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Kaza
Anastia and I spent three incredible days in Tabo in our guesthouse on the outskirts of the village starting at a monumental mountain jutting up from the ground only a few feet away. We were sorry to leave, but like they say, all good things must come to an end, plus we had to stay on schedule -- anastia had a flight to catch only a week ahead.
The roadblock had cleared and we left for Kaza, the main city in Spiti. We reached Kaza and found a rather ordinary and small city with a lot of closed shops, on account of everyone still not back from Nako and the Dalai Lama visit. I needed oil badly for the clutch and was prepared to stay in Kaza until I found some. The one store in town with oil was closed, but Anastia managed to find out where the owner lived, and somehow went there and came back with the owner's friend and the key to the story. This is how we got oil. I thought our problems were solved.
We decided to spend the night in Kibber, an ancient city perched on a hill at 4000 meters only 20 kilometers away. We had heard a lot about Kibber being the most beautiful place in the world etc... etc... and out high expectations led us to being slightly dissapointed at the view and the village which were not so different from the other villages we had been in. Nevertheless we took one of two guesthouses, ate some indigenouse food that resembled Argentian empanadas, met a danish couple who had been living and traveling in India for nine years and who we would meet again in the next village, and slept.
In the morning we returned to Kaza and ran into none other than Mati and Gali, again. We decided to proceed to the next stop, Losar, together. Mati has a thing about riding at an absurdly slow speed and stopping no more than every 10 kilometers for five minute "bong break". I was slightly annoyed by this, as I prefer to ride long distances and stop for longer periods of time, thus keeping up the momentum and arriving faster, but I did realize that riding slow has tremendous advantages, such as taking in more of the surrounding view and noticing small things that may otherwise go by unnoticed.
During one of the breaks Mati noticed that my back tire was deflated. Suspecting a flat tire we continued on at a slow speed to see if the tire lost more air: it did. Mati inflated the tire with a hand pump and we continued on slowly. About 10 kilometers from Losar the tire exploded and I lost control of the bike which swung left and right and left and right until I finally regained control. During this experience I saw my life flash before my eyes and was sure that we were going to crash. The bike had tipped over slightly when I managed to stop it thus grazing some of the luggage on the asphalt, and the tire had popped completely out of position. Anastia was in shock which expressed itself as hysterical laughter.
Mati and Gali who were riding ahead finally returned to see what was keeping us. Mati claimed to have expertise fixing tires. We took out the wheel and then, as he attempted to remove the tube with a screwdriver, he actually managed to create more punctures in the tire! He was working hastily and with obvious frustration, and didnt heed our warnings about damaging the tube even more. Finally he got the tube out and as he inserted my spare tube, he managed to ruin it completely with the screwdriver!! I was irate but Mati took control and would not let go of fixing the tire. He had simply gone crazy and would not listen to anybody. His girlfriend looked on in horror while making him a joint to calm his nerves. Anyways by and by he then took out his own spare and ruined that too, and we were completely stuck.
Eventually they left to Losar and promised to get a jeep to pick us up. We hailed the first semi to pass and got a ride to Losar with the flat tire, hoping that someone there could fix it. The ride in the semi truck was extremely fun and a nice diversion from our motorcycle troubles. We reached Losar and discovered that there was no mechanic who could fix the tubes that were now all beyond repair due to Mati's ridiculous stubborness. If only we had taken the tire as I had wanted to Losar they could have patched up the tire without any problems. Well eventually I realized I would have to go back to Kaza to get a new tube and the next day we took a local bus back to Kaza, a 2 hour ride. The ride itself was rough but a good experience seeing all the locals, some of whom take the trip every day to get to work. We reached Kaza, and I found a local with a bike who was kind enough to take me in search of a new inner tube. Hours and hours later after much desperation and heat, we found a tube that could be repaired. But then then it couldnt and more searching was needed. I was going crazy. Finally we found a fellow israeli with a spare tube, and after much convincing, he agreed to sell it to me. We thanked him profusely, knowing that he still had a huge ride ahead of him to Kinnaur and no spare, which was a risky situation. Anastia took a jeep back to Losar while I stayed to have the tire fixed. An Englishman named Adrien was heading to Losar and I hitched a ride with him while his friend whose name I cant recall followed behind. We shot some cool videos along the way. My butt was hurting due to English Adrien's fast riding, but I didnt complain. I was starting to know the Kaza-Losar rode intimately, and the only solace to the redundant riding was that this was a particularly beautiful rode full of all kinds of majestic hills and valleys and, well, you know all those jaw dropping himalayan views.
We reached the motorcycle where I had left it in before Losar and realized, to my huge huge dismay, that two critical pieces in the wheel had popped out during the ride!!!!!! FFFUCK was what I thought and I was literally ready to abandon the bike their forever and cut my losses. I was going nuts at this point. Nothing to do but continue to Losar. Adrien amazingly offered to take me BACK to Kaza the next day again, my third time! to get the missing pieces. We left early the next day while anastia stayed behind, and I endured yet again a butt-hurting ride to Kaza with crazy english adrien. He seemed to enjoy driving fast. We got the pieces from the tire walla who had an old identical tire, and rode back to Losar, not before stopping at the Key Monastery where i had already been! but which adriend wanted to see first. I couldnt say no to someone who was doing me this fantastic favor, obviously.
Finally we got going but of course adrien had to have his only flat tire on the way!! Three hours later we continued with a half inflated new tube due to a poorly functioning hand pump and made to my bike and fixed the tire. My bike was back on track, I put some oil in, and rode to Losar slowly. It was about four in the afternoon and having lost three days in Losar, we decided to continue with English Adrien to Chandra Tal, our next stop. This of course was unwise, seeing as how we'd heard that from Losar and onwards was the worst part of the Spiti Kinnaur rodes and we would hit darkness in a few hours, but we decided that in the worst case we'd camp with Adrien who had full camping gear. His buddy had already left Losar so it was just the three of us.
We rode through very bad rocky and muddy roads and reached Kanzum La, one of the high passes in Spiti. From here we reached a turn off from the main road to manali which heads to Chandra Tal, a lake in the middle of the mountains at 4200 meters of which we'd heard so much about.
The roadblock had cleared and we left for Kaza, the main city in Spiti. We reached Kaza and found a rather ordinary and small city with a lot of closed shops, on account of everyone still not back from Nako and the Dalai Lama visit. I needed oil badly for the clutch and was prepared to stay in Kaza until I found some. The one store in town with oil was closed, but Anastia managed to find out where the owner lived, and somehow went there and came back with the owner's friend and the key to the story. This is how we got oil. I thought our problems were solved.
We decided to spend the night in Kibber, an ancient city perched on a hill at 4000 meters only 20 kilometers away. We had heard a lot about Kibber being the most beautiful place in the world etc... etc... and out high expectations led us to being slightly dissapointed at the view and the village which were not so different from the other villages we had been in. Nevertheless we took one of two guesthouses, ate some indigenouse food that resembled Argentian empanadas, met a danish couple who had been living and traveling in India for nine years and who we would meet again in the next village, and slept.
In the morning we returned to Kaza and ran into none other than Mati and Gali, again. We decided to proceed to the next stop, Losar, together. Mati has a thing about riding at an absurdly slow speed and stopping no more than every 10 kilometers for five minute "bong break". I was slightly annoyed by this, as I prefer to ride long distances and stop for longer periods of time, thus keeping up the momentum and arriving faster, but I did realize that riding slow has tremendous advantages, such as taking in more of the surrounding view and noticing small things that may otherwise go by unnoticed.
During one of the breaks Mati noticed that my back tire was deflated. Suspecting a flat tire we continued on at a slow speed to see if the tire lost more air: it did. Mati inflated the tire with a hand pump and we continued on slowly. About 10 kilometers from Losar the tire exploded and I lost control of the bike which swung left and right and left and right until I finally regained control. During this experience I saw my life flash before my eyes and was sure that we were going to crash. The bike had tipped over slightly when I managed to stop it thus grazing some of the luggage on the asphalt, and the tire had popped completely out of position. Anastia was in shock which expressed itself as hysterical laughter.
Mati and Gali who were riding ahead finally returned to see what was keeping us. Mati claimed to have expertise fixing tires. We took out the wheel and then, as he attempted to remove the tube with a screwdriver, he actually managed to create more punctures in the tire! He was working hastily and with obvious frustration, and didnt heed our warnings about damaging the tube even more. Finally he got the tube out and as he inserted my spare tube, he managed to ruin it completely with the screwdriver!! I was irate but Mati took control and would not let go of fixing the tire. He had simply gone crazy and would not listen to anybody. His girlfriend looked on in horror while making him a joint to calm his nerves. Anyways by and by he then took out his own spare and ruined that too, and we were completely stuck.
Eventually they left to Losar and promised to get a jeep to pick us up. We hailed the first semi to pass and got a ride to Losar with the flat tire, hoping that someone there could fix it. The ride in the semi truck was extremely fun and a nice diversion from our motorcycle troubles. We reached Losar and discovered that there was no mechanic who could fix the tubes that were now all beyond repair due to Mati's ridiculous stubborness. If only we had taken the tire as I had wanted to Losar they could have patched up the tire without any problems. Well eventually I realized I would have to go back to Kaza to get a new tube and the next day we took a local bus back to Kaza, a 2 hour ride. The ride itself was rough but a good experience seeing all the locals, some of whom take the trip every day to get to work. We reached Kaza, and I found a local with a bike who was kind enough to take me in search of a new inner tube. Hours and hours later after much desperation and heat, we found a tube that could be repaired. But then then it couldnt and more searching was needed. I was going crazy. Finally we found a fellow israeli with a spare tube, and after much convincing, he agreed to sell it to me. We thanked him profusely, knowing that he still had a huge ride ahead of him to Kinnaur and no spare, which was a risky situation. Anastia took a jeep back to Losar while I stayed to have the tire fixed. An Englishman named Adrien was heading to Losar and I hitched a ride with him while his friend whose name I cant recall followed behind. We shot some cool videos along the way. My butt was hurting due to English Adrien's fast riding, but I didnt complain. I was starting to know the Kaza-Losar rode intimately, and the only solace to the redundant riding was that this was a particularly beautiful rode full of all kinds of majestic hills and valleys and, well, you know all those jaw dropping himalayan views.
We reached the motorcycle where I had left it in before Losar and realized, to my huge huge dismay, that two critical pieces in the wheel had popped out during the ride!!!!!! FFFUCK was what I thought and I was literally ready to abandon the bike their forever and cut my losses. I was going nuts at this point. Nothing to do but continue to Losar. Adrien amazingly offered to take me BACK to Kaza the next day again, my third time! to get the missing pieces. We left early the next day while anastia stayed behind, and I endured yet again a butt-hurting ride to Kaza with crazy english adrien. He seemed to enjoy driving fast. We got the pieces from the tire walla who had an old identical tire, and rode back to Losar, not before stopping at the Key Monastery where i had already been! but which adriend wanted to see first. I couldnt say no to someone who was doing me this fantastic favor, obviously.
Finally we got going but of course adrien had to have his only flat tire on the way!! Three hours later we continued with a half inflated new tube due to a poorly functioning hand pump and made to my bike and fixed the tire. My bike was back on track, I put some oil in, and rode to Losar slowly. It was about four in the afternoon and having lost three days in Losar, we decided to continue with English Adrien to Chandra Tal, our next stop. This of course was unwise, seeing as how we'd heard that from Losar and onwards was the worst part of the Spiti Kinnaur rodes and we would hit darkness in a few hours, but we decided that in the worst case we'd camp with Adrien who had full camping gear. His buddy had already left Losar so it was just the three of us.
We rode through very bad rocky and muddy roads and reached Kanzum La, one of the high passes in Spiti. From here we reached a turn off from the main road to manali which heads to Chandra Tal, a lake in the middle of the mountains at 4200 meters of which we'd heard so much about.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Kalpa
We rode the eight kilometers up to Kalpa from Rekong Peu and found the first decent guesthouse called Parvati guesthouse. Their we met Gali and Mati, two serious acid heads in their late twenties on their fourth trip to India. We sat with them and heard stories about various acid trip they had taken in random spots all around the world.
The next day Anastia and I took the bike down to Rekong Peu, though the bike stalled on the way and we had to push it through mud and seek help from Kalpa locals, most of whom are usually dressed in traditional green hats and brown frocks.
The next few days were spending the mornings at the mechanics trying to figure out what the hell the problem with my bike was, becoming convinced the mechanic had no idea how to fix the bike and was making up random solutions on the spot that made no sense just to get me out of there, and the afternoons, smoking with Mati, talking shop, lounging about and enjoying the stunning view of the tallest peak in this area (mount Kailish, 6500 meters). The weather couldnt have been better, and tourists were generally not around as the road from Manali was roadblocked and most had turned back. The food was surprisingly good at the guesthouse, run by Raj, a man in his thirties who cooked all the food himself. We ate thali usually, but the beans were of a different variety every night!
After four or five days and enough confidence that our bike would make it to the next stop, we decided to head out. We had this annoying oil leak that just couldnt be fixed, but the mechanic had fixed some cable and the bike seemed to be running better than before. We prayed we wouldnt get stuck on the way.
We made our way through and through the windy hills that slowly turned more barren and sandy, and also more beautiful, and decided our next stop was Chango. We reached Nako by evening, about 20 kilometers before Chango, and the Dhali Lama's stop for the next day. We wanted to sleep in Nako but the DL's visit was causing problems for us: all the guesthouses were full, literally. We decided to take our chances and head for Chango in the dark...whats the worst that could happen? The bike was underperforming again due to who knows what, and we rode slowly. Eventually we reached an uphill muddy slope and the bike stalled. I tried to start but nothing happened, and then it started raining, and then it got cold. We thought about what we could do, and then decided to hitch a ride to Chango and come back for the bike in the morning. After a few futile attempts, a jeep stopped for us and we headed for Chango. Right after where we stalled was a landslide area with a deep river to cross, and jeep handled it poorly. Driving in a jeep at night is scarier than many things I'd experienced, and when two jeep cross on a narrow dirt rode with a steep cliff on one side, theres many reason to close your eyes and pray.
We made it to Chango only to learn from the police at the entrance to town that everybody went to Nako to see the DL and that only one guesthouse was open two kilometers earlier. One of the policeman recognized us from Rekong Peu, he had almost given me a ticket for riding without a helmet, but warmed up to us and convinced the jeep driver to take us back to the guesthouse. We arrived, and were told we could sleep but would have to leave by six am because the whole family was going to Nako in the morning. We ate a dinner of leftover spinach and chapati and went to sleep. In the morning we took a jeep taxi back to the bike and managed to start it.
We crossed the precarious river, one of the hardest on this trip, and continued our journey, slowly. The bike was performing poorly, and I had to stop to refill oil in the clutch box from time to time. Nevertheless we still enjoyed the increasingly amazing views and took tons of photos. Eventually we reached Chango again, passed and continued on to Tabo.
We reached Tabo and had no choice by to stay there and not proceed to Kaza because a landslide up ahead had blocked the road and wouldnt be cleared until the next day. We ended up staying in Tabo for three days in one of the best guesthouses we'd been. We found Gali and Mati there also and we slacked off with them, building a homemade bong and chatting with Tenseen most of the time, the guesthouse owner from Manali. We had entered the Spiti Valley, and we were nearing Kaza, where I was sure to find a good mechanic.
I didnt have more oil and was worried about riding to Kaza without reserve oil, but Tabo, like Chango, was empty and the stores were closed, on account of everyone fleeing to see the DL in Nako. In Spiti everyone is Buddhist, but they are not considered Tibetan, rather they have their own Spitten culture, just like the Ladakhies and the Kinnauris.
We left for Kaza after a few extremely pleasant days in Tabo.
The next day Anastia and I took the bike down to Rekong Peu, though the bike stalled on the way and we had to push it through mud and seek help from Kalpa locals, most of whom are usually dressed in traditional green hats and brown frocks.
The next few days were spending the mornings at the mechanics trying to figure out what the hell the problem with my bike was, becoming convinced the mechanic had no idea how to fix the bike and was making up random solutions on the spot that made no sense just to get me out of there, and the afternoons, smoking with Mati, talking shop, lounging about and enjoying the stunning view of the tallest peak in this area (mount Kailish, 6500 meters). The weather couldnt have been better, and tourists were generally not around as the road from Manali was roadblocked and most had turned back. The food was surprisingly good at the guesthouse, run by Raj, a man in his thirties who cooked all the food himself. We ate thali usually, but the beans were of a different variety every night!
After four or five days and enough confidence that our bike would make it to the next stop, we decided to head out. We had this annoying oil leak that just couldnt be fixed, but the mechanic had fixed some cable and the bike seemed to be running better than before. We prayed we wouldnt get stuck on the way.
We made our way through and through the windy hills that slowly turned more barren and sandy, and also more beautiful, and decided our next stop was Chango. We reached Nako by evening, about 20 kilometers before Chango, and the Dhali Lama's stop for the next day. We wanted to sleep in Nako but the DL's visit was causing problems for us: all the guesthouses were full, literally. We decided to take our chances and head for Chango in the dark...whats the worst that could happen? The bike was underperforming again due to who knows what, and we rode slowly. Eventually we reached an uphill muddy slope and the bike stalled. I tried to start but nothing happened, and then it started raining, and then it got cold. We thought about what we could do, and then decided to hitch a ride to Chango and come back for the bike in the morning. After a few futile attempts, a jeep stopped for us and we headed for Chango. Right after where we stalled was a landslide area with a deep river to cross, and jeep handled it poorly. Driving in a jeep at night is scarier than many things I'd experienced, and when two jeep cross on a narrow dirt rode with a steep cliff on one side, theres many reason to close your eyes and pray.
We made it to Chango only to learn from the police at the entrance to town that everybody went to Nako to see the DL and that only one guesthouse was open two kilometers earlier. One of the policeman recognized us from Rekong Peu, he had almost given me a ticket for riding without a helmet, but warmed up to us and convinced the jeep driver to take us back to the guesthouse. We arrived, and were told we could sleep but would have to leave by six am because the whole family was going to Nako in the morning. We ate a dinner of leftover spinach and chapati and went to sleep. In the morning we took a jeep taxi back to the bike and managed to start it.
We crossed the precarious river, one of the hardest on this trip, and continued our journey, slowly. The bike was performing poorly, and I had to stop to refill oil in the clutch box from time to time. Nevertheless we still enjoyed the increasingly amazing views and took tons of photos. Eventually we reached Chango again, passed and continued on to Tabo.
We reached Tabo and had no choice by to stay there and not proceed to Kaza because a landslide up ahead had blocked the road and wouldnt be cleared until the next day. We ended up staying in Tabo for three days in one of the best guesthouses we'd been. We found Gali and Mati there also and we slacked off with them, building a homemade bong and chatting with Tenseen most of the time, the guesthouse owner from Manali. We had entered the Spiti Valley, and we were nearing Kaza, where I was sure to find a good mechanic.
I didnt have more oil and was worried about riding to Kaza without reserve oil, but Tabo, like Chango, was empty and the stores were closed, on account of everyone fleeing to see the DL in Nako. In Spiti everyone is Buddhist, but they are not considered Tibetan, rather they have their own Spitten culture, just like the Ladakhies and the Kinnauris.
We left for Kaza after a few extremely pleasant days in Tabo.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Kinnaur
Hey!! Im back in Israel now and Ive got pleeeenty of time to finish up my big india story...
Right, so I was in Manali with a bike problem. We rolled down the hill from where we stalled and when we got back to the start of Manali the road stopped going down. I told Anastia to wait while I went to find the nearest mechanic. I ran, and I sweated but I was determined to leave Manali the same day being as it was raining and all and I hate the rain. I finally reached a shop and the mechanic came back with me and we pushed the bike manual style.
I won't bore you readers with the boring details, but suffice it to say we spent the entire day at that shop with a couple mechanics who, I realized later, knew jack shit about enfields and how to fix them. The problem, I was told, was electrical. Later, after changing some parts that actually didnt need to be changed, the problem was boiled down to a busted alternator. OK. So fix this shit and lets get out of here! But no, they werent sure of what they were doing and had to call in another mechanic named Sonny who apparently is quite a famous mechanic! They fixed the problem but it was too late to leave. Also the spring for the kick start broke while they were fixing the other problems. blah blah blah.
We drove back to our guesthouse frustrated but then surprised to run into our friends who were supposed to also have gone to Spiti via Rhotang Pass in a jeep. As it turned out there was a massive landslide that made passing to Spiti impossible, and we were lucky we hadnt proceeded further, as we would have had to turn back to Manali anyways, as they had iin the jeep. Plans were delayed for a day and we would set out the next day.
The road was blocked again the next day and while the group abandoned Spiti-Kinnaur, Anastia and I were determined to make it. We had to do some more stuff in the shop of Sonny and Bonny, fix the spring for the kickstart and Sonny showed me that the chain itself was completely fucked and had to be replaced due to the poor workmanship of a Kashmiri mechanic who had put the new chain on without centering it. I had to put in a new chain, and I had him put new shocks in the back too because they were worn out completely and with Anastia on the back I wanted to make sure the shocks wouldnt explode in the middle of the mountains! This took a whole day and so we were delayed yet again. We also decided, since the road block to spiti, that we would head south to Kinnaur first, and then go up to Spiti and Lahaul and come back to Manali. This is the same thing we were planning just the other way around. By the time we got to Spiti the road would be repaired.
The following morning we took off to Kinnaur. We were on our way! Hurrah!
The first part of the trip out of Manali was fast and familiar to me, as I had ridden this way earlier in the trip on the way to Kasol from Manali. We reached Aut and turned off into the hills towards Chail Chowk. We road thru low windy hills covered in green and reached Chail Chowk where we ate dirty thali and found that bottled water was simply unavailable. We continued, thirsty and drank at our own risk from a random stream on the way.
I realized at this point that I had oil dripping from the clutch box. Shit! Not a good way to start the trip into what is commonly known as the toughest road in India! Sonny had told us quite clearly that the Spiti Lahaul part is the hardest road to navigate in all of India, even more than the manali Leh road.
We reached Karsog, a small beautiful village and took a nice room with a balcony and amazing view. We had bought a bottle of sketchy Indian whisky in Manali and sat drinking all night long on the balcony.
The next day we continued and were determined to make it to Kalpa, a small village a few kilometers from Recong Peu, the main village of Kinnaur Valley. Our determination didnt mean we'd make it however, as the oil leak got worse and the bike stalled a few times. The first time it stalled near a waterfall we were drooling over but we managed to jump start on slope. I was rather pissed that my bike was having problems after having been to Sonny and Bonny and demanding that they do whatever necessary to prepare my bike for the trip. My bike was failing me and we weren't even in Kinnaur yet!
the bike stalled again on a sandy dirt road in the middle of the day in scorching weather and I started cursing every member of Sonny and Bonny's family each time I tried to kickstart and nothing happened. Anastia was also pissed and we had to push the bike for some time in mud and dirt. It sucked big time! I thought it was over, we were stuck forever, I was gonna ditch the bike and become a homeless vegetarian nomad and make russian kids with anastia, but then the bike started all of a sudden and we continued to Luri. Luri was a hellish village mainly because of the hellish heat. I tried to find a mechanic but none was available in the village that ran for no more than 200 meters. The oil leak was getting worse and I tried to figure out what the problem was but couldnt figure it out. The bike was sputtering a bit and obviously something was not working right.
We left Luri and I prayed we'd make it to Rampur, a rather big city where a mechanic could help me out. We arrived and suffice it to say that by the next day, after a good nights sleep in a fine hotel on a majestic river and 700 ruppees in a mechanics pocket we left. The problem was the starting switch or something in the alternator again and the mechanic fixed it. Before we left though he took me to wash my bike and then see the building he owned. I smoked a joint with him and the contractor which was awesome. He had also claimed to fix the oil leak.
The bike was riding great now, but 20 kilometers later I realized I still had an oil leak! I called the same mechanic who rode out to meet us and temporarily fixed the problem. Somebody stole one of my gloves and we continued. We just wanted to get to Kalpa and relax!
After Rampur, which is on a fairly main highway, we again entered the mountains and headed for Recong Peu. The views were familiar to me as were back in Uttaranchal where I was in the beginning of the trip: mossy and bushy green mountains and verdant valleys with gushing rivers: amazing. And at least we had great weather now. No rain, no scorching heat, just perfect. We hit a couple stretches of bad road but nothing like what I had seen up in Ladakh. The 40 kilometers of road before Recong Peu were bad due to construction being done on the roads. The road up here was fairly decent for a place lacking in traffic and people. It would stay fairly decent until Spiti. We finally reached Recong Peu at night and drove up to Kalpa to a guesthouse and passed out immediately.
Right, so I was in Manali with a bike problem. We rolled down the hill from where we stalled and when we got back to the start of Manali the road stopped going down. I told Anastia to wait while I went to find the nearest mechanic. I ran, and I sweated but I was determined to leave Manali the same day being as it was raining and all and I hate the rain. I finally reached a shop and the mechanic came back with me and we pushed the bike manual style.
I won't bore you readers with the boring details, but suffice it to say we spent the entire day at that shop with a couple mechanics who, I realized later, knew jack shit about enfields and how to fix them. The problem, I was told, was electrical. Later, after changing some parts that actually didnt need to be changed, the problem was boiled down to a busted alternator. OK. So fix this shit and lets get out of here! But no, they werent sure of what they were doing and had to call in another mechanic named Sonny who apparently is quite a famous mechanic! They fixed the problem but it was too late to leave. Also the spring for the kick start broke while they were fixing the other problems. blah blah blah.
We drove back to our guesthouse frustrated but then surprised to run into our friends who were supposed to also have gone to Spiti via Rhotang Pass in a jeep. As it turned out there was a massive landslide that made passing to Spiti impossible, and we were lucky we hadnt proceeded further, as we would have had to turn back to Manali anyways, as they had iin the jeep. Plans were delayed for a day and we would set out the next day.
The road was blocked again the next day and while the group abandoned Spiti-Kinnaur, Anastia and I were determined to make it. We had to do some more stuff in the shop of Sonny and Bonny, fix the spring for the kickstart and Sonny showed me that the chain itself was completely fucked and had to be replaced due to the poor workmanship of a Kashmiri mechanic who had put the new chain on without centering it. I had to put in a new chain, and I had him put new shocks in the back too because they were worn out completely and with Anastia on the back I wanted to make sure the shocks wouldnt explode in the middle of the mountains! This took a whole day and so we were delayed yet again. We also decided, since the road block to spiti, that we would head south to Kinnaur first, and then go up to Spiti and Lahaul and come back to Manali. This is the same thing we were planning just the other way around. By the time we got to Spiti the road would be repaired.
The following morning we took off to Kinnaur. We were on our way! Hurrah!
The first part of the trip out of Manali was fast and familiar to me, as I had ridden this way earlier in the trip on the way to Kasol from Manali. We reached Aut and turned off into the hills towards Chail Chowk. We road thru low windy hills covered in green and reached Chail Chowk where we ate dirty thali and found that bottled water was simply unavailable. We continued, thirsty and drank at our own risk from a random stream on the way.
I realized at this point that I had oil dripping from the clutch box. Shit! Not a good way to start the trip into what is commonly known as the toughest road in India! Sonny had told us quite clearly that the Spiti Lahaul part is the hardest road to navigate in all of India, even more than the manali Leh road.
We reached Karsog, a small beautiful village and took a nice room with a balcony and amazing view. We had bought a bottle of sketchy Indian whisky in Manali and sat drinking all night long on the balcony.
The next day we continued and were determined to make it to Kalpa, a small village a few kilometers from Recong Peu, the main village of Kinnaur Valley. Our determination didnt mean we'd make it however, as the oil leak got worse and the bike stalled a few times. The first time it stalled near a waterfall we were drooling over but we managed to jump start on slope. I was rather pissed that my bike was having problems after having been to Sonny and Bonny and demanding that they do whatever necessary to prepare my bike for the trip. My bike was failing me and we weren't even in Kinnaur yet!
the bike stalled again on a sandy dirt road in the middle of the day in scorching weather and I started cursing every member of Sonny and Bonny's family each time I tried to kickstart and nothing happened. Anastia was also pissed and we had to push the bike for some time in mud and dirt. It sucked big time! I thought it was over, we were stuck forever, I was gonna ditch the bike and become a homeless vegetarian nomad and make russian kids with anastia, but then the bike started all of a sudden and we continued to Luri. Luri was a hellish village mainly because of the hellish heat. I tried to find a mechanic but none was available in the village that ran for no more than 200 meters. The oil leak was getting worse and I tried to figure out what the problem was but couldnt figure it out. The bike was sputtering a bit and obviously something was not working right.
We left Luri and I prayed we'd make it to Rampur, a rather big city where a mechanic could help me out. We arrived and suffice it to say that by the next day, after a good nights sleep in a fine hotel on a majestic river and 700 ruppees in a mechanics pocket we left. The problem was the starting switch or something in the alternator again and the mechanic fixed it. Before we left though he took me to wash my bike and then see the building he owned. I smoked a joint with him and the contractor which was awesome. He had also claimed to fix the oil leak.
The bike was riding great now, but 20 kilometers later I realized I still had an oil leak! I called the same mechanic who rode out to meet us and temporarily fixed the problem. Somebody stole one of my gloves and we continued. We just wanted to get to Kalpa and relax!
After Rampur, which is on a fairly main highway, we again entered the mountains and headed for Recong Peu. The views were familiar to me as were back in Uttaranchal where I was in the beginning of the trip: mossy and bushy green mountains and verdant valleys with gushing rivers: amazing. And at least we had great weather now. No rain, no scorching heat, just perfect. We hit a couple stretches of bad road but nothing like what I had seen up in Ladakh. The 40 kilometers of road before Recong Peu were bad due to construction being done on the roads. The road up here was fairly decent for a place lacking in traffic and people. It would stay fairly decent until Spiti. We finally reached Recong Peu at night and drove up to Kalpa to a guesthouse and passed out immediately.
Friday, September 14, 2007
Manali Again
Im back in Delhi waiting for a few days for my flight and I realized i havent written in my blog for nearly a month and so much has happened! Where do i start?
I arrived in Manali after the crazy Leh to Manali adventure that basically changed my life and the way I think about things in general. If I didnt get the message across in my earlier post, the ride was like travelling on another planet, probably mercury, though I wouldnt really know. Huge mountains, deep valleys, incandescent sunshine and no people make for surreal surroundings. The whole trip I was cursing myself for not buying a good camera, and now I was missing incredible photo opportunities. Oh well.
Anyways back in Manali I took a room at the Mountain Diew guesthouse and was shocked at my appearance when I glanced in the mirror. I was black, literally, from all the dust and sand on the road, and where my sunglasses used to sit were now two large white holes surrounding my eyes in a sea of ash. I was too weary to take a shower just yet, and walked around in the village, immediately meeting a host of friends from Leh and Kashmir. They had trouble recognizing me as my face was still black, despite some attempts to wash myself at the sink. My pants were covered in mud also and the internet guy thought twice before letting me sit down at the computer to check my mail.
I ran into Asher and Anastia here. Asher left the next day to Rishikish on the bike I had helped him buy and which he was now desperately trying to sell. I spent the next few days with Anastia and a new group of people she met in manali in the two weeks she had already been there. Among them were a flamboyant fashion designer, two young ethiopian israeli girls from netanya, a couple generic hippies, a lonely American named Lloyd from Louisiana whom everyone despised, and an Israeli-russian immigrant like Anastia who I just ran into again here in delhi yesterday. These few days were a recovery period for me from the crazy leh-manali trip that wore me out, and I spent the days relaxing, updating my blog and eating good food.
This group devised a plan to visit Spiti-Kinnaur, two adjacent valleys east of Manali that, like Leh, are closed eight months out of the year. The ride from Manali to Kinnaur and then Spiti leads back to Manali in a practical loop and makes for a perfect circuit trip. I was offered to join the group in a jeep expedition costing a small fortune but decided I would follow on my own bike. I had heard about Spiti Kinnaur but originally had little intention of doing this, as Olik and I had already decided to meet and ride to Nepal together- i was to wait for him in Manali. Olik however failed to arrive by his proposed date and I decided to go to Spiti Kinnaur and postpone Nepal for a few days, until I arrived back to Manali. I thought the trip would only take five days. Anastia and I were together quite a lot in Manali and she asked to join me on the bike, which I decided was an awesome idea since not only would I be splitting gas money, but Id have a pretty russian blonde at my disposal in case we got stuck in the mountains at night and needed to hitch a ride (two things that ended up happening).
I informed Olik that Id be meeting him later than intended which was fine because he notified me that he'd gotten sick and was staying in Leh for a few more days, and we left on Sunday morning, hungover after a long night of drinking. I had replaced a broken accelerator cable on the bike but did little more before leaving for Spiti as I had already serviced the bike in Leh and figured it was good for the journey. I was wrong. ten kilometers into the trip to Spiti via the Rhotang pass which I had just come down from on the way from Leh, the bike stalled. I checked everything I could think of, and a few indians on enfields also stopped to offer advice. They concluded the problem was electrical and I had no other choice but to turn the bike around and head back down the hill in neutral hoping to find a mechanic.
I arrived in Manali after the crazy Leh to Manali adventure that basically changed my life and the way I think about things in general. If I didnt get the message across in my earlier post, the ride was like travelling on another planet, probably mercury, though I wouldnt really know. Huge mountains, deep valleys, incandescent sunshine and no people make for surreal surroundings. The whole trip I was cursing myself for not buying a good camera, and now I was missing incredible photo opportunities. Oh well.
Anyways back in Manali I took a room at the Mountain Diew guesthouse and was shocked at my appearance when I glanced in the mirror. I was black, literally, from all the dust and sand on the road, and where my sunglasses used to sit were now two large white holes surrounding my eyes in a sea of ash. I was too weary to take a shower just yet, and walked around in the village, immediately meeting a host of friends from Leh and Kashmir. They had trouble recognizing me as my face was still black, despite some attempts to wash myself at the sink. My pants were covered in mud also and the internet guy thought twice before letting me sit down at the computer to check my mail.
I ran into Asher and Anastia here. Asher left the next day to Rishikish on the bike I had helped him buy and which he was now desperately trying to sell. I spent the next few days with Anastia and a new group of people she met in manali in the two weeks she had already been there. Among them were a flamboyant fashion designer, two young ethiopian israeli girls from netanya, a couple generic hippies, a lonely American named Lloyd from Louisiana whom everyone despised, and an Israeli-russian immigrant like Anastia who I just ran into again here in delhi yesterday. These few days were a recovery period for me from the crazy leh-manali trip that wore me out, and I spent the days relaxing, updating my blog and eating good food.
This group devised a plan to visit Spiti-Kinnaur, two adjacent valleys east of Manali that, like Leh, are closed eight months out of the year. The ride from Manali to Kinnaur and then Spiti leads back to Manali in a practical loop and makes for a perfect circuit trip. I was offered to join the group in a jeep expedition costing a small fortune but decided I would follow on my own bike. I had heard about Spiti Kinnaur but originally had little intention of doing this, as Olik and I had already decided to meet and ride to Nepal together- i was to wait for him in Manali. Olik however failed to arrive by his proposed date and I decided to go to Spiti Kinnaur and postpone Nepal for a few days, until I arrived back to Manali. I thought the trip would only take five days. Anastia and I were together quite a lot in Manali and she asked to join me on the bike, which I decided was an awesome idea since not only would I be splitting gas money, but Id have a pretty russian blonde at my disposal in case we got stuck in the mountains at night and needed to hitch a ride (two things that ended up happening).
I informed Olik that Id be meeting him later than intended which was fine because he notified me that he'd gotten sick and was staying in Leh for a few more days, and we left on Sunday morning, hungover after a long night of drinking. I had replaced a broken accelerator cable on the bike but did little more before leaving for Spiti as I had already serviced the bike in Leh and figured it was good for the journey. I was wrong. ten kilometers into the trip to Spiti via the Rhotang pass which I had just come down from on the way from Leh, the bike stalled. I checked everything I could think of, and a few indians on enfields also stopped to offer advice. They concluded the problem was electrical and I had no other choice but to turn the bike around and head back down the hill in neutral hoping to find a mechanic.
Monday, September 3, 2007
Leh-Manali Part Two
I slept in Sarchu inside a dilapidated one room tent serving fried noodles all night long to weary truck drivers. I slept in my clothing under a foot thick woolen blankets often supplied in cheap tents at high altitudes where no other guesthouses are available.
I left early in the morning with all the refreshed drivers and after dawning every article of clothing and covering m face with the pashmina started the long journey to manali. The sun rose behind me as I started down the road out of teh Sarchu valley and lit up teh entire mountain range before me. I began climbing to the second of teh passes I was to conquer and was stunned by the expanding range before me, climbing higher and higher. The mountains here were simply huge, and more than ever I felt like a space adventurer travelling on some forbidden far off planet. I saw more and more green, especially of the mossy variety - no trees, and the sun created so many shades of green and gold that I had to stop a few times just to take in all this beauty. Undoubtedy I was in one of the top contenders for most beautiful place on earth.
The road itself was surprisingly decent. With all the talk about the Leh-Manali being the hardest road in the world, having to climb three passes, ride through rivers, sand and mud, brave violent snow, rain, thunder, lightning and even dodge landslides, I was finding teh ride quite easy, even comfortable. Mostly asphalt, the road was broken in some places, and some stretches were rocky and sandy, but no big bolders bulging out of the road, no seriously steep hills, no potholes. The weather was perfect, I couldnt be luckier travelling alone on the worlds most dangerous road.
I reached a valley with a few dhabas and had an aloo parantha with egg and tea while drooling over the mountains climbing high over the river next to me. I continued to Keylong, driving through more and more greener mountains again ascending higher and higher over the widening river below. At certain points I found myself riding on narrow roads high near the mountain peaks at nearly 4500 meters, and down below one could see only a deepening void, far far away.
I reached Keylong and drove through the city, deciding whether or not to spend the night. While the city was pleasant enough, and teh views from the guesthouses amazing, I decided against staying since it was only eleven. I had the whole day and only 100 km to Manali. If the road was good I could make it by three.
I took a short break after Keylong and hiked up to a nice view point and drooled some more over the vista before me. The ranges were starting to look more like the mountains in Manali now.
I road and road and road an road on more high windy roads and eventually reached the most trying of hurdles. Before me was an actual river ON the road, flowing towards me. The road turned into giant boulders adn a river came from the right, flowed on the road for 20 meters, adn continued off to the left. I looked for a way around but found none. I went for it. The bike struggled against the strong flow and sharp boulders, heaving this way and that, nearly falling over. Both feet completely in the water, exhaust fumes rising fast with steam as the bike in first gear struggles against the current. Surely the other way is easier. Eventually I made to the end and breathed a weary but proud sigh of relief - I made it.
After this the road to Rhotang Pass was more of the same. I past the turn off to Spiti which I was to actually arrive from a few weeks later. After this turn I found myself entering a thickening fog. Up at Rhotang Pass, where a few months earlier I had seen Indians sledding and riding ponies on icy slopes, a heavy cloud submerged everything, and suddently I could see only two meters ahead of me. Nothing looked familiar, because I could see nothing. The cloud brought dew which created mud on the road. The road up here, like most passes, is unfinished adn the sand turns to mud in rainy conditions. I road slowly with my high beams on for a few kilometers down the Manali side of Rhotang pass and honked enthusiastically to any oncoming traffic, which appeared before me like ghosts coming out of dark clouds.
Eventually the cloud subsided and I saw once again the view familiar to me from my ascent to Rhotang a few months earlier which ended in one week of miserable altitude illness adn food poisening. I rode on, excited about getting to Manali in one piece, but still i had one more challenge ahead of me. A landslide had knocked out a couple kilometers of road a few months earlier and work was being done on the road. Teh rain had turned this entire stretch into thick, soupy mud and a semi had gotten stuck, creating a huge traffic jam. I rode through the mud slowly with two muddy feet on the ground. I tried to pass a truck on the right because there was no room on the left, and found myself riding seriously close to the edge on slippery terrain. I chastised myself for this, and asked an Indian man to push me back onto the road. I continued in the mud and in an instant saw the bike topple over into the mud. It slipped. I picked it up and continued. The same thing happened again two minutes later, to the amusemetn of some Indians who came to me and told me to stop using the front brake in the mud. I took their advice and continued on to Manali without any more incidents.
I left early in the morning with all the refreshed drivers and after dawning every article of clothing and covering m face with the pashmina started the long journey to manali. The sun rose behind me as I started down the road out of teh Sarchu valley and lit up teh entire mountain range before me. I began climbing to the second of teh passes I was to conquer and was stunned by the expanding range before me, climbing higher and higher. The mountains here were simply huge, and more than ever I felt like a space adventurer travelling on some forbidden far off planet. I saw more and more green, especially of the mossy variety - no trees, and the sun created so many shades of green and gold that I had to stop a few times just to take in all this beauty. Undoubtedy I was in one of the top contenders for most beautiful place on earth.
The road itself was surprisingly decent. With all the talk about the Leh-Manali being the hardest road in the world, having to climb three passes, ride through rivers, sand and mud, brave violent snow, rain, thunder, lightning and even dodge landslides, I was finding teh ride quite easy, even comfortable. Mostly asphalt, the road was broken in some places, and some stretches were rocky and sandy, but no big bolders bulging out of the road, no seriously steep hills, no potholes. The weather was perfect, I couldnt be luckier travelling alone on the worlds most dangerous road.
I reached a valley with a few dhabas and had an aloo parantha with egg and tea while drooling over the mountains climbing high over the river next to me. I continued to Keylong, driving through more and more greener mountains again ascending higher and higher over the widening river below. At certain points I found myself riding on narrow roads high near the mountain peaks at nearly 4500 meters, and down below one could see only a deepening void, far far away.
I reached Keylong and drove through the city, deciding whether or not to spend the night. While the city was pleasant enough, and teh views from the guesthouses amazing, I decided against staying since it was only eleven. I had the whole day and only 100 km to Manali. If the road was good I could make it by three.
I took a short break after Keylong and hiked up to a nice view point and drooled some more over the vista before me. The ranges were starting to look more like the mountains in Manali now.
I road and road and road an road on more high windy roads and eventually reached the most trying of hurdles. Before me was an actual river ON the road, flowing towards me. The road turned into giant boulders adn a river came from the right, flowed on the road for 20 meters, adn continued off to the left. I looked for a way around but found none. I went for it. The bike struggled against the strong flow and sharp boulders, heaving this way and that, nearly falling over. Both feet completely in the water, exhaust fumes rising fast with steam as the bike in first gear struggles against the current. Surely the other way is easier. Eventually I made to the end and breathed a weary but proud sigh of relief - I made it.
After this the road to Rhotang Pass was more of the same. I past the turn off to Spiti which I was to actually arrive from a few weeks later. After this turn I found myself entering a thickening fog. Up at Rhotang Pass, where a few months earlier I had seen Indians sledding and riding ponies on icy slopes, a heavy cloud submerged everything, and suddently I could see only two meters ahead of me. Nothing looked familiar, because I could see nothing. The cloud brought dew which created mud on the road. The road up here, like most passes, is unfinished adn the sand turns to mud in rainy conditions. I road slowly with my high beams on for a few kilometers down the Manali side of Rhotang pass and honked enthusiastically to any oncoming traffic, which appeared before me like ghosts coming out of dark clouds.
Eventually the cloud subsided and I saw once again the view familiar to me from my ascent to Rhotang a few months earlier which ended in one week of miserable altitude illness adn food poisening. I rode on, excited about getting to Manali in one piece, but still i had one more challenge ahead of me. A landslide had knocked out a couple kilometers of road a few months earlier and work was being done on the road. Teh rain had turned this entire stretch into thick, soupy mud and a semi had gotten stuck, creating a huge traffic jam. I rode through the mud slowly with two muddy feet on the ground. I tried to pass a truck on the right because there was no room on the left, and found myself riding seriously close to the edge on slippery terrain. I chastised myself for this, and asked an Indian man to push me back onto the road. I continued in the mud and in an instant saw the bike topple over into the mud. It slipped. I picked it up and continued. The same thing happened again two minutes later, to the amusemetn of some Indians who came to me and told me to stop using the front brake in the mud. I took their advice and continued on to Manali without any more incidents.
Saturday, September 1, 2007
Leh-Manali
I left Leh early in the morning after a quick breakfast with Olik who insisted I wake him before I left. A couple croissants later I was rolling down the major rode to Manali. I quickly began witnessing the impressive scenery that was to hold my attention for the next two full days. The journey began with large golden hills flanking each side, and a river flowing between them on my left. I was swept away by the grandeur of the mountains and stopped after a couple hours at a lone tea tent. I continued up into the mountains to the first of three passes I was to cross on my way to Manali. As the road ascended it also became less driveable (as is often the case) and my bike stalled in a muddy work zone next to a small group of tar-covered migrant workers from Calcutta or Bombay. After a brief panic I remembered what I had scene a mechanic do in a similar situation: change the spark plug. If the bike doesnt start, says the general wisdom, check the plug. I had a spare with me and copied the procedure I had scene the mechanic carry out, and after all was done and ready, the bike started. The tar covered workers were all impressed with my technical abilities, and I rode off in high spirits, having actually fixed my own vehicle for the first time in my life, and that, in the middle of the fucking himalayas!
I continued and rode through the pass, one of the highest in the world at about 4700 meters. I was at this point regretting not buying a new camera before the trip, because my camera was not working and I was riding alone, therefore no pics. And this is the most amazing place in the world damnit! At the pass a group of jeep drivers helped me fix a noise problem caused by my carelessly connected leg gaurds.
I continued down the southern side of this amazing pass (what's its name?) and came to a plateau with a river and a impassable bridge. A truck itself was sitting on the bridge with one of its massive tires blasted through one of the metal planks. A man on the side told me the only cross was through the river. I had seen this done a few times in a internet motorcycle tutorials i had seen before the trip, but I hadnt ever crossed a river before! I braced myself, put the bike in solid first, and dove in. The river was only 7-8 meters wide, but almost a meter deep! The water came up to my knees as I made my way to the middle, but in only 4 seconds I was out and heading towards Pang.
The scenery here was all Ladakhy desert mountains, golden ridges, huge spralling hills and wide sandy plateaus. No green at all. Eventually I entered a vast playa flanked by massive mountains on both sides. The rode between was straight and unpaved, rocky. I road fast, standing up on my bike at times to spare my body the abuse caused by the rocky road. Eventually we reached the pundras, and my bike slid this way and that the moment we hit sand. I tried to keep steady on the thick sand, but having little experience in this terrain, I came to a halt as the bike sank. As I tried to get out of the sand the bike kicked up clouds of dust which settled on me and everything I carried. I couldnt get out of the sand but luckily a group in a jeep came to my rescue and gave me a push out of the sand. As I road off I noticed the bike was coughing and sputtering, and after another half hour of brutal sand riding it stopped completely. I was stranded with a non-functional bike in the middle of the himalayan desert.
No worried however because just like with the spark plug, I also figured this problem out. I put two and two together and figured the air filter was loaded with sand. I didnt have the necessary screw driver but managed to stop a motorist with one. I took out the filter like I had seen the mechanic do, cleaned it by shaking it around and banging it on a rock, put it back in and amazing the bike started. I rode off, pleasantly surprised by my new ability to fix broken motorcycles!
After the pundra I entered one of the most beautiful rodes of the Leh-Manali route: a dusty sandy rode flanked by hills that sprouted actual sand castles, lots of them. The only downside to this rode was that the jeeps in front of me kicked up so much sand that it was impossible for me to pass them to get out of their wake.
I arrived at Pang covered in dust and ate at a Punjabi Dhaba tent with some Punjabi truck drivers.
After Pang I continued through more crazy sand castles, high mountain passes, golden hills, and saw as the golden brown mountains became randomly interspersed with varying shades of light green. A river seemed to always be somewhere to my left, and maybe this, along with the decreasing altitude, accounted for the increasing greenery. The rode itself, even from Leh, was mostly paved with stretches of broken asphalt and potholes. Some stretches were sandy and rocky, where landslides had destroyed the roads, but for the most part I had seen worse roads in India. The only major obstacle up to this point was the river crossing and the sand.
I was driving alone alone and therefore rather fast, and only later, in Manali, would I realize the damage that can be caused by driving fast over rocky terrain on a Royal Enfield.
I entered a phase of increasingly winding rocky and sandy road and had a seriously fun time. I stopped for a break and realized I had lost my keys, which must have lept from the bike when my bike flew off a bump. I decided to go back and look for my keys. After a futile attempt, I turned back and continued the ride. The sun was beginning to set and I was getting anxious to get to Sarchu, my destination for day one. At about six I reached the bottom of the descent into Sarchu, a long flat valley with more green than I had seen in a long time, and finally reached an inhabitable area. Most of the ride up to this point saw no villages, people or animals, except for the two tents in Pang and the one tea stall early on, as well as a dhaba at the first pass and the road construction workers. When I reached Sarchu I was dead tired, exhausted from the long tiring trip, about 200 kilometers, covered in dust and sand, and eager to sleep. Sarchu is not a city but basically a rest stop for truck drivers and groups in jeeps. I ended up sleeping in a restaurant's circus tent in the back with fifteen other truck drivers, mostly punjabi. I only realized the next day that 50 meters onwards were actual guesthouse tents, which were much more expensive. I went to sleep at 9pm that night and woke up at 5am to continue the second part of Leh-Manali.
I continued and rode through the pass, one of the highest in the world at about 4700 meters. I was at this point regretting not buying a new camera before the trip, because my camera was not working and I was riding alone, therefore no pics. And this is the most amazing place in the world damnit! At the pass a group of jeep drivers helped me fix a noise problem caused by my carelessly connected leg gaurds.
I continued down the southern side of this amazing pass (what's its name?) and came to a plateau with a river and a impassable bridge. A truck itself was sitting on the bridge with one of its massive tires blasted through one of the metal planks. A man on the side told me the only cross was through the river. I had seen this done a few times in a internet motorcycle tutorials i had seen before the trip, but I hadnt ever crossed a river before! I braced myself, put the bike in solid first, and dove in. The river was only 7-8 meters wide, but almost a meter deep! The water came up to my knees as I made my way to the middle, but in only 4 seconds I was out and heading towards Pang.
The scenery here was all Ladakhy desert mountains, golden ridges, huge spralling hills and wide sandy plateaus. No green at all. Eventually I entered a vast playa flanked by massive mountains on both sides. The rode between was straight and unpaved, rocky. I road fast, standing up on my bike at times to spare my body the abuse caused by the rocky road. Eventually we reached the pundras, and my bike slid this way and that the moment we hit sand. I tried to keep steady on the thick sand, but having little experience in this terrain, I came to a halt as the bike sank. As I tried to get out of the sand the bike kicked up clouds of dust which settled on me and everything I carried. I couldnt get out of the sand but luckily a group in a jeep came to my rescue and gave me a push out of the sand. As I road off I noticed the bike was coughing and sputtering, and after another half hour of brutal sand riding it stopped completely. I was stranded with a non-functional bike in the middle of the himalayan desert.
No worried however because just like with the spark plug, I also figured this problem out. I put two and two together and figured the air filter was loaded with sand. I didnt have the necessary screw driver but managed to stop a motorist with one. I took out the filter like I had seen the mechanic do, cleaned it by shaking it around and banging it on a rock, put it back in and amazing the bike started. I rode off, pleasantly surprised by my new ability to fix broken motorcycles!
After the pundra I entered one of the most beautiful rodes of the Leh-Manali route: a dusty sandy rode flanked by hills that sprouted actual sand castles, lots of them. The only downside to this rode was that the jeeps in front of me kicked up so much sand that it was impossible for me to pass them to get out of their wake.
I arrived at Pang covered in dust and ate at a Punjabi Dhaba tent with some Punjabi truck drivers.
After Pang I continued through more crazy sand castles, high mountain passes, golden hills, and saw as the golden brown mountains became randomly interspersed with varying shades of light green. A river seemed to always be somewhere to my left, and maybe this, along with the decreasing altitude, accounted for the increasing greenery. The rode itself, even from Leh, was mostly paved with stretches of broken asphalt and potholes. Some stretches were sandy and rocky, where landslides had destroyed the roads, but for the most part I had seen worse roads in India. The only major obstacle up to this point was the river crossing and the sand.
I was driving alone alone and therefore rather fast, and only later, in Manali, would I realize the damage that can be caused by driving fast over rocky terrain on a Royal Enfield.
I entered a phase of increasingly winding rocky and sandy road and had a seriously fun time. I stopped for a break and realized I had lost my keys, which must have lept from the bike when my bike flew off a bump. I decided to go back and look for my keys. After a futile attempt, I turned back and continued the ride. The sun was beginning to set and I was getting anxious to get to Sarchu, my destination for day one. At about six I reached the bottom of the descent into Sarchu, a long flat valley with more green than I had seen in a long time, and finally reached an inhabitable area. Most of the ride up to this point saw no villages, people or animals, except for the two tents in Pang and the one tea stall early on, as well as a dhaba at the first pass and the road construction workers. When I reached Sarchu I was dead tired, exhausted from the long tiring trip, about 200 kilometers, covered in dust and sand, and eager to sleep. Sarchu is not a city but basically a rest stop for truck drivers and groups in jeeps. I ended up sleeping in a restaurant's circus tent in the back with fifteen other truck drivers, mostly punjabi. I only realized the next day that 50 meters onwards were actual guesthouse tents, which were much more expensive. I went to sleep at 9pm that night and woke up at 5am to continue the second part of Leh-Manali.
Monday, August 13, 2007
Nubra...
I didnt actually leave today again from Manali...motorcycle repairs...so im stuck here one more day...
Id like to jump back a couple hours. On the way to Nubra signs that led me to Diskit actually led me to a checkpoint which a soldier claimed was the last before China. He told me to turn back -- Diskit was the other way, and the signs are misleading. Upon entering the Valley I was stunned by the picture before me: plains of sand for miles and miles, bordered by majestic hills backed by gigantic himalayan mountaines topped by a perfectly blue 5PM sky and a setting sun.
After eating we talked with the owner of the Organic Garden who happens to also be a doctor and he explained just how freezing cold it is in Ladakh during the winter and what actually goes on: nothing. Everybody stays indoors most of the time, sitting around a fire, the women sowing and the men drinking and playing cards. It can get boring, and showers are not taken. Apparently nobody gets dirty because the whole body is entirely covered with layers and layers of clothing all the time, therefore "not even one speck of dust can get in." Not exactly where I want to spend my Christmas vacation. After dinner I stayed up late with the Austrians, talking about Austria. She works for a NGO and he likes to mountain climb and has only recently "found nature."
In the morning I met Joanna at the Diskit Gompa. The monastery is hundreds of years old and is built into the side of a mountain. A road leads up to the entrance and stairs lead to the different stories, or levels. We saw some old Buddhist relics, artwork and religious pieces, most of it quite flimsy looking and lacking the impressive flamboyance of say, the Vatican. But this is Buddhism, a religioun that renounces the material world, not much emphasis placed on religious art. Some monks in red sat and drank Chai and Joanna took some pics. We left after an hour and some spiritual awakening. Theres lots of pictures of the Dalai Lama everywhere.
I followed Joanna's jeep with the couple and their guide to the other side of Nubra Valley for what I thought would be a day trip. We visited a few monasteries that day, a secret hidden lake in the center of a small mountain which the Ladakhys claim you can look into and see visual renderings of important events/people (like the Dalai Lama for instance). Joanna rode with me and took some awesome videos which I need to get from her. We visited Hot Springs in Panamik which were nothing more then a few rusted drains spurting luke warm sulphur water and small enclosed bath with discraded razor blades. With the sun setting I realized I wasnt going back to Hundar (1.5 hour ride) and stayed in a guesthouse in Sumur with the Spaniards. Dinner was set menu made of ingredients again grown in the actual gueshouse yard: aloo gobi, rice, chapati, veggies etc. Afterwards we drank beer with two Cambridge girls who could not be more out of place then they were now in tights, leg warmers, posh cashmere sweaters and fully made-up faces and hair. But we had a nice conversation and passed out.
In the morning Joanna and the couple rode back to Leh, all three of them feeling sick from the heights, and I returned to Hundar. On the way I stopped in the Diskit sand dunes and patted a bizarre two-humped desert camel that was apparently brought from China years and years ago. I declined a ride, having been warned about the slowness of the camels walk. I got to Hundar and moved to the Organic Garden guesthouse and took a bed in a well set-up and comfortable two person tent. Dinner again in the OG with the multicultural pack. Tomorrow we were going to see the Dalai Lama arrive for his first visit to the Diskit Gompa in two years.
In the morning the whole crew left early to walk the two hours to Diskit. I stayed back, read and enjoyed the glorious weather. I heard the DL was arriving at 3pm only so I left at 130 and reached the Gompa by two: just in time. The group had been waiting for hours along with the throng of Buddhist in traditional clothing waiting enthusiastically for their leader holding various incense, flowers and prayer beads. Everytime the crowd would rise for DL false alarms. I saw Nuchum the rabbinical student from the Jewish house in Leh. He had also made the trip to Nubra, but he specifically to see the DL. I had no idea the DL was coming until I got there. As I spoke to him about the similarities between the Jewish and Budhhist faiths, the whole DL entourage passed by us and we caught a quick glimpse of the DL. Thats it? We were to see more of him tomorrow. I ate lunch as the crowd dispersed and bought a Tibetan necklace as a gift and a Tibetan bracelet for myself.
That night at the Organic Garden I learned that the older Italian in our crew actually owns a small organic vegetarian restuarant in the heart of Rome and we talked shop into the wee hours. He says he works hard 14 hour days and needed a long vacation, so he closed the restaurant for a year to travel in India.
In the morning we all again went to Diskit, I took my bags with me as I was going to leave back to Leh after the morning teaching. Everybody from every where came with their dark black and brown robes, curved up costume shoes, prayer beads and incense and sat under awnings listening to the DL. I watched for 20 minutes, felt the closeness of the DL, had a girl take a pic to send me later, and after searching out an area with an English translation that didnt exist, left. I drove back to Leh and the ride was amazing.
In Leh I spent one day organizing my things to leave Leh back to Manali. I walked around and said goodbyes to the diffferent cafe and restuarant workers I had met. Olik and his friends returned from a bike trip cut short to Pangong and Olik tried to convince me to stay just a few more days. But I had been in Ladakh for a month and now it was time to go.
Id like to jump back a couple hours. On the way to Nubra signs that led me to Diskit actually led me to a checkpoint which a soldier claimed was the last before China. He told me to turn back -- Diskit was the other way, and the signs are misleading. Upon entering the Valley I was stunned by the picture before me: plains of sand for miles and miles, bordered by majestic hills backed by gigantic himalayan mountaines topped by a perfectly blue 5PM sky and a setting sun.
After eating we talked with the owner of the Organic Garden who happens to also be a doctor and he explained just how freezing cold it is in Ladakh during the winter and what actually goes on: nothing. Everybody stays indoors most of the time, sitting around a fire, the women sowing and the men drinking and playing cards. It can get boring, and showers are not taken. Apparently nobody gets dirty because the whole body is entirely covered with layers and layers of clothing all the time, therefore "not even one speck of dust can get in." Not exactly where I want to spend my Christmas vacation. After dinner I stayed up late with the Austrians, talking about Austria. She works for a NGO and he likes to mountain climb and has only recently "found nature."
In the morning I met Joanna at the Diskit Gompa. The monastery is hundreds of years old and is built into the side of a mountain. A road leads up to the entrance and stairs lead to the different stories, or levels. We saw some old Buddhist relics, artwork and religious pieces, most of it quite flimsy looking and lacking the impressive flamboyance of say, the Vatican. But this is Buddhism, a religioun that renounces the material world, not much emphasis placed on religious art. Some monks in red sat and drank Chai and Joanna took some pics. We left after an hour and some spiritual awakening. Theres lots of pictures of the Dalai Lama everywhere.
I followed Joanna's jeep with the couple and their guide to the other side of Nubra Valley for what I thought would be a day trip. We visited a few monasteries that day, a secret hidden lake in the center of a small mountain which the Ladakhys claim you can look into and see visual renderings of important events/people (like the Dalai Lama for instance). Joanna rode with me and took some awesome videos which I need to get from her. We visited Hot Springs in Panamik which were nothing more then a few rusted drains spurting luke warm sulphur water and small enclosed bath with discraded razor blades. With the sun setting I realized I wasnt going back to Hundar (1.5 hour ride) and stayed in a guesthouse in Sumur with the Spaniards. Dinner was set menu made of ingredients again grown in the actual gueshouse yard: aloo gobi, rice, chapati, veggies etc. Afterwards we drank beer with two Cambridge girls who could not be more out of place then they were now in tights, leg warmers, posh cashmere sweaters and fully made-up faces and hair. But we had a nice conversation and passed out.
In the morning Joanna and the couple rode back to Leh, all three of them feeling sick from the heights, and I returned to Hundar. On the way I stopped in the Diskit sand dunes and patted a bizarre two-humped desert camel that was apparently brought from China years and years ago. I declined a ride, having been warned about the slowness of the camels walk. I got to Hundar and moved to the Organic Garden guesthouse and took a bed in a well set-up and comfortable two person tent. Dinner again in the OG with the multicultural pack. Tomorrow we were going to see the Dalai Lama arrive for his first visit to the Diskit Gompa in two years.
In the morning the whole crew left early to walk the two hours to Diskit. I stayed back, read and enjoyed the glorious weather. I heard the DL was arriving at 3pm only so I left at 130 and reached the Gompa by two: just in time. The group had been waiting for hours along with the throng of Buddhist in traditional clothing waiting enthusiastically for their leader holding various incense, flowers and prayer beads. Everytime the crowd would rise for DL false alarms. I saw Nuchum the rabbinical student from the Jewish house in Leh. He had also made the trip to Nubra, but he specifically to see the DL. I had no idea the DL was coming until I got there. As I spoke to him about the similarities between the Jewish and Budhhist faiths, the whole DL entourage passed by us and we caught a quick glimpse of the DL. Thats it? We were to see more of him tomorrow. I ate lunch as the crowd dispersed and bought a Tibetan necklace as a gift and a Tibetan bracelet for myself.
That night at the Organic Garden I learned that the older Italian in our crew actually owns a small organic vegetarian restuarant in the heart of Rome and we talked shop into the wee hours. He says he works hard 14 hour days and needed a long vacation, so he closed the restaurant for a year to travel in India.
In the morning we all again went to Diskit, I took my bags with me as I was going to leave back to Leh after the morning teaching. Everybody from every where came with their dark black and brown robes, curved up costume shoes, prayer beads and incense and sat under awnings listening to the DL. I watched for 20 minutes, felt the closeness of the DL, had a girl take a pic to send me later, and after searching out an area with an English translation that didnt exist, left. I drove back to Leh and the ride was amazing.
In Leh I spent one day organizing my things to leave Leh back to Manali. I walked around and said goodbyes to the diffferent cafe and restuarant workers I had met. Olik and his friends returned from a bike trip cut short to Pangong and Olik tried to convince me to stay just a few more days. But I had been in Ladakh for a month and now it was time to go.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Nubra Valley
After the Nagmyal visit and a few days of pure relaxation and rest, Olik and I decided to go to Nubra Valley, about 120KM North, on the way to China/Tibet. The road passes through Kardung La where we'd already gone for the whole bicycle ride back down the road to Leh. This time we were going up and crossing the pass, and then coming down on the other side into the valley. The valley itself is about the same height as Leh, around 3500 meters.
But Olik's friends from Israel had just arrived and he wasn't going anywhere soon. I met a Spanish girl named Joanna going to Nubra the same day in a jeep and we decided to meet there. After talking all night long with Olik's childhood friends I woke up early, had a coffee with Olik who insisted I wake him up before I leave for goodbyes (even though we'd be meeting in a few days), arranged a few items and took off.
I road up the Kardung La road about 15 km when all of a sudden the clutch cable broke. Great. I managed to ride the bike in third gear all the way down, stymied at a certain point when my bike sunk in fresh asphalt in a construction zone, but making it all the way to the mechanic. A nice brit let me go first so I could get going, and once the clutch cable was fixed I departed.
Made it to Kardung La in 40 minutes, and then road down to Nubra in another 3 hours. The first 5 km after the pass was the worst chunk of road I have seen yet! Enormous boulders sticking out of the road at odd angles followed by huge craters. Scary. My bike nearly toppled over when I hit a jagged rock but I saved myself in mid-air with a swift turn of the handle bar. I landed on soft sand, sunk a bit, and came out of it all with no problems. The rest of the way was cake compared to the first part, except that I had to drive carefully due to the high volume of sand on the street. Theres few things scarier then loose sand for a motorcycle rider. The ride was windy as usual, large beautiful himalayan peaks, getting a bit shorter towards the valley. There was only one tiny village along the way called Kardung where I sat and drank chai with a group of Bengalis with expensive looking bikes and all the newest motorcycle gear and branded clothing.
I arrived in Hundar, about seven Km past Diskit, the main city of Nubra, and didn't find Joanna but instead found the Austrian couple, Nicole and Mikael from the Stok Trek. We had sat together often in Leh in the javeen cafe and I was very happy to find them here. I stayed in the dormitory in their guesthouse and we ate at the Organic Garden, a large tent guesthouse with a restaurant that claims to use only organic ingredients grown on the premises. We ate with another two Italians, a very young French guy and French girl, and a Columbian girl. Very multicultural, and no Israeli's at all!
The next day I met Joanna at the Diskit Monastery in Diskit. Now I have to go.
But Olik's friends from Israel had just arrived and he wasn't going anywhere soon. I met a Spanish girl named Joanna going to Nubra the same day in a jeep and we decided to meet there. After talking all night long with Olik's childhood friends I woke up early, had a coffee with Olik who insisted I wake him up before I leave for goodbyes (even though we'd be meeting in a few days), arranged a few items and took off.
I road up the Kardung La road about 15 km when all of a sudden the clutch cable broke. Great. I managed to ride the bike in third gear all the way down, stymied at a certain point when my bike sunk in fresh asphalt in a construction zone, but making it all the way to the mechanic. A nice brit let me go first so I could get going, and once the clutch cable was fixed I departed.
Made it to Kardung La in 40 minutes, and then road down to Nubra in another 3 hours. The first 5 km after the pass was the worst chunk of road I have seen yet! Enormous boulders sticking out of the road at odd angles followed by huge craters. Scary. My bike nearly toppled over when I hit a jagged rock but I saved myself in mid-air with a swift turn of the handle bar. I landed on soft sand, sunk a bit, and came out of it all with no problems. The rest of the way was cake compared to the first part, except that I had to drive carefully due to the high volume of sand on the street. Theres few things scarier then loose sand for a motorcycle rider. The ride was windy as usual, large beautiful himalayan peaks, getting a bit shorter towards the valley. There was only one tiny village along the way called Kardung where I sat and drank chai with a group of Bengalis with expensive looking bikes and all the newest motorcycle gear and branded clothing.
I arrived in Hundar, about seven Km past Diskit, the main city of Nubra, and didn't find Joanna but instead found the Austrian couple, Nicole and Mikael from the Stok Trek. We had sat together often in Leh in the javeen cafe and I was very happy to find them here. I stayed in the dormitory in their guesthouse and we ate at the Organic Garden, a large tent guesthouse with a restaurant that claims to use only organic ingredients grown on the premises. We ate with another two Italians, a very young French guy and French girl, and a Columbian girl. Very multicultural, and no Israeli's at all!
The next day I met Joanna at the Diskit Monastery in Diskit. Now I have to go.
Friday, August 10, 2007
After Stok
I just got back to Manali and I can now write at a more leisurely pace since the internet is not so damn expensive.
I really want to write about my trip from Leh to Manali which is so fresh in my mind, but I have to finish with Leh first. After we got back from the trek Olik and I were burnt out. My body had undergone some serious altitude abuse, and now I was in dire need of some downtime. First we needed to find a guesthouse- we had left most of our luggage in the Jewish House - and we spent a couple hours searching for a good place with a badly needed hot shower. Leh was bustling and rooms were full to capacity, but after a while we found a room for 300 ruppees at Rinchen Guesthouse which is nestled behind the main road - Changspa road - and is run by a nice Ladakhy family. Most of the guesthouses indeed are run by quaint traditional families and in most cases the food served is also grown somewhere in the backyard.
After a couple hot showers we settled into a routine of relaxation for the next few days. We spent these days sitting at Javeen Coffee across the road reminiscing about the trek and how crazy we were to partake in it. All of our friends - and we had made a bunch in Leh - were fascinated - or so we assumed - by our four day expedition. The manager, a Sikh with a very clean, white and large turbin, welcomed us as regulars at his cafe and lavished us with day-old chocolate doughnuts (not made from lard and therefore not as tasty as american doughnuts). I had the misfortune of ordering something called the "Chef's Special Burger" with no cheese and receiving a potato patty topped with heavy cream and no bun. After several attempts to fix the burger, the Sikh explained that this is how burgers are served "continental style" which sounds like B.S. but ok. Mainly we drank black tea and avoided the food here.
Changspa Road in Leh is the main hub for Israelis and is a long road loaded with chill-out restaurants, cafes and expensive internet shops. We finally decided that Crossroads restaurant had the best food and we sat there frequently; i even broke my vegetarianism and ate Tandoori Chicken there which I liked a lot. The waiter was a tall, lanky Nepali who sat with us often but said little. I only gathered that he worked here during the high season and returned to Nepal with a pocket full of cash.
A week went by quickly as we lounged in cafes, spoke with different israeli and european tourists, made friends with staff etc. We walked up to a Buddhist monastery and watched the sunset, took small bike trips around Leh, did some shopping. At Crossroads I happened to meet and talk Neitsche with a smart 22 yr old Israeli named Moshe who had just finished three years with the highly selective Sea Commando unit in the the IDF and was not smoking any hash because he was planning on working as trainer for Nigerian presidential security agents which required special drug tests.
One day in the internet shop I was temporarily annoyed by an israeli family of five who were bickering about such obviously mundane and flippant issues like how much the eldest son could chat with his friends on instant messenger while the youngest wailed on in the background from utter boredom. Later I happened to talk with the father who said they had just begun a year long trip with the family, and that this was a dream he'd always had. Good luck!
Amin was an Indian friend I made at the Wonderland Restaurant, another generic place with indian style seating and israeli-chinese-indian-italian food. Originally from Darjeeling, he had been traveling and working in the South of india in places like Goa in restaurants and cafes. He was now not working and was traveling just like the rest of us, and many nights he sat with us playing cards and drinking mint tea with honey.
Remember Nagmyal? The trek guide? He had promised to invite us to his house in the Tibetan village and a few days had passed without a word. He also said something about owning a yellow sportbike. Sitting downstairs at the Wonderland one day we saw Nagmyal drive up on just such a yellow sportbike as he had described. He looked completely different, clean, shaven, wearing form-fitting jeans with tears in just the right places and patches in others. Olik and I were so happy to see him, having completed a life-changing journey in the Himalayas with him. There was to be a Full-Moon party that night and we decided we would go together. First, I reminded Nagmyal about his promise to show us his home in the Tibetan Village. Olik and I followed him on my bike to his village about 7 km from Leh. The village is actually on the road to Manali and is a very traditional onclave with cement brick dwellings divided by crude cement walls. Each house had a yard with a couple cows or chickens and maybe a mill for grinding corn. We entered his house, saw a couple cows in the yard, expected little from the interior, and were surprised to find a well-maintained living room with a large TV and stereo speakers. Lining the walls were Ladakhy tapestries with images of horses and other animals. Off of the living room was a small kitchen with fresh cow cheese in large wooden bowls on the counter. In another room I caught glimpse of an oblivious old man who I later learned was Nagmyal's father.
Sitting down on the couch/bed Nagmyal put before us bowls of Curd. For those who don't know, curd is what the Indians's call Yoghurt, and it's a few times more repulsive then the American version. I don't eat yoghurt in general, and when its served with so many suspicious lumps there is little I can do but decline politely. "I can't eat this" was my response because I just don't care if I offend people - I just don't like it damnit! Olik grumbled something about a weak stomach after the trek but thanks so much anyways. The curd dissappeared in a flash and was replaced by store bought pound cake and two bottles of coke that Nagmyal's son had fetched from the market. While eating and drinking Nagmyal showed us pictures of his brother in the army, his brother parachuting, his brother reaching a mountain peak. More pictures of his ex-girlfriend from Japan with him in the desert and a couple of large amplifiers. More pictures of his sister (who is working in Israel for one year as migrant farmhand) and friends from the past. One picture of Nagmyal at a Tibetan freedom march.
Nagmyal then showed us a video called Nomads, about the Chinese occupation and persecution and the Tibetan struggle for independence. His family came from Tibet, he told us, fifty years ago or so, and most of his family was still there; he had never seen most of them. His father had a special visa and visited his brother and parents in Tibet regularly, but Nagmyal had never visited. He dreamed now of getting a visa to visit family he'd never seen.
We left Nagmyal's house after meeting his mom who offered us a couple pieces of fresh cow cheese which Olik accepted and I declined and rode to a peaceful spot overlooking the Indus river. We talked more about Nagmyals plans to work in Europe and save enough money to come back and open a trekking equipment store in Ladakh and tried to convince him to come to Israel instead. The full-moon shined brightly on the Indus as we chatted into the night. At ten we headed back to Leh in time for the full moon party.
Everyone was waiting at K.C. Garden whose owners were throwing the party. Lots of israelis and european tourists waiting for buses to take them to a secret location. Olik and I rode the bike behind the bus and arrived at the secret location after 25 minutes. The party was in the middle of a huge field surrounded by mountains and we danced until 7 AM.
After a few days lounging about and doing nothing particular except for enjoying myself, I decided to take a motorcycle trip to one of the surrounding areas. Nubra Valley is about six hours from Leh and we decided to go visit.
I really want to write about my trip from Leh to Manali which is so fresh in my mind, but I have to finish with Leh first. After we got back from the trek Olik and I were burnt out. My body had undergone some serious altitude abuse, and now I was in dire need of some downtime. First we needed to find a guesthouse- we had left most of our luggage in the Jewish House - and we spent a couple hours searching for a good place with a badly needed hot shower. Leh was bustling and rooms were full to capacity, but after a while we found a room for 300 ruppees at Rinchen Guesthouse which is nestled behind the main road - Changspa road - and is run by a nice Ladakhy family. Most of the guesthouses indeed are run by quaint traditional families and in most cases the food served is also grown somewhere in the backyard.
After a couple hot showers we settled into a routine of relaxation for the next few days. We spent these days sitting at Javeen Coffee across the road reminiscing about the trek and how crazy we were to partake in it. All of our friends - and we had made a bunch in Leh - were fascinated - or so we assumed - by our four day expedition. The manager, a Sikh with a very clean, white and large turbin, welcomed us as regulars at his cafe and lavished us with day-old chocolate doughnuts (not made from lard and therefore not as tasty as american doughnuts). I had the misfortune of ordering something called the "Chef's Special Burger" with no cheese and receiving a potato patty topped with heavy cream and no bun. After several attempts to fix the burger, the Sikh explained that this is how burgers are served "continental style" which sounds like B.S. but ok. Mainly we drank black tea and avoided the food here.
Changspa Road in Leh is the main hub for Israelis and is a long road loaded with chill-out restaurants, cafes and expensive internet shops. We finally decided that Crossroads restaurant had the best food and we sat there frequently; i even broke my vegetarianism and ate Tandoori Chicken there which I liked a lot. The waiter was a tall, lanky Nepali who sat with us often but said little. I only gathered that he worked here during the high season and returned to Nepal with a pocket full of cash.
A week went by quickly as we lounged in cafes, spoke with different israeli and european tourists, made friends with staff etc. We walked up to a Buddhist monastery and watched the sunset, took small bike trips around Leh, did some shopping. At Crossroads I happened to meet and talk Neitsche with a smart 22 yr old Israeli named Moshe who had just finished three years with the highly selective Sea Commando unit in the the IDF and was not smoking any hash because he was planning on working as trainer for Nigerian presidential security agents which required special drug tests.
One day in the internet shop I was temporarily annoyed by an israeli family of five who were bickering about such obviously mundane and flippant issues like how much the eldest son could chat with his friends on instant messenger while the youngest wailed on in the background from utter boredom. Later I happened to talk with the father who said they had just begun a year long trip with the family, and that this was a dream he'd always had. Good luck!
Amin was an Indian friend I made at the Wonderland Restaurant, another generic place with indian style seating and israeli-chinese-indian-italian food. Originally from Darjeeling, he had been traveling and working in the South of india in places like Goa in restaurants and cafes. He was now not working and was traveling just like the rest of us, and many nights he sat with us playing cards and drinking mint tea with honey.
Remember Nagmyal? The trek guide? He had promised to invite us to his house in the Tibetan village and a few days had passed without a word. He also said something about owning a yellow sportbike. Sitting downstairs at the Wonderland one day we saw Nagmyal drive up on just such a yellow sportbike as he had described. He looked completely different, clean, shaven, wearing form-fitting jeans with tears in just the right places and patches in others. Olik and I were so happy to see him, having completed a life-changing journey in the Himalayas with him. There was to be a Full-Moon party that night and we decided we would go together. First, I reminded Nagmyal about his promise to show us his home in the Tibetan Village. Olik and I followed him on my bike to his village about 7 km from Leh. The village is actually on the road to Manali and is a very traditional onclave with cement brick dwellings divided by crude cement walls. Each house had a yard with a couple cows or chickens and maybe a mill for grinding corn. We entered his house, saw a couple cows in the yard, expected little from the interior, and were surprised to find a well-maintained living room with a large TV and stereo speakers. Lining the walls were Ladakhy tapestries with images of horses and other animals. Off of the living room was a small kitchen with fresh cow cheese in large wooden bowls on the counter. In another room I caught glimpse of an oblivious old man who I later learned was Nagmyal's father.
Sitting down on the couch/bed Nagmyal put before us bowls of Curd. For those who don't know, curd is what the Indians's call Yoghurt, and it's a few times more repulsive then the American version. I don't eat yoghurt in general, and when its served with so many suspicious lumps there is little I can do but decline politely. "I can't eat this" was my response because I just don't care if I offend people - I just don't like it damnit! Olik grumbled something about a weak stomach after the trek but thanks so much anyways. The curd dissappeared in a flash and was replaced by store bought pound cake and two bottles of coke that Nagmyal's son had fetched from the market. While eating and drinking Nagmyal showed us pictures of his brother in the army, his brother parachuting, his brother reaching a mountain peak. More pictures of his ex-girlfriend from Japan with him in the desert and a couple of large amplifiers. More pictures of his sister (who is working in Israel for one year as migrant farmhand) and friends from the past. One picture of Nagmyal at a Tibetan freedom march.
Nagmyal then showed us a video called Nomads, about the Chinese occupation and persecution and the Tibetan struggle for independence. His family came from Tibet, he told us, fifty years ago or so, and most of his family was still there; he had never seen most of them. His father had a special visa and visited his brother and parents in Tibet regularly, but Nagmyal had never visited. He dreamed now of getting a visa to visit family he'd never seen.
We left Nagmyal's house after meeting his mom who offered us a couple pieces of fresh cow cheese which Olik accepted and I declined and rode to a peaceful spot overlooking the Indus river. We talked more about Nagmyals plans to work in Europe and save enough money to come back and open a trekking equipment store in Ladakh and tried to convince him to come to Israel instead. The full-moon shined brightly on the Indus as we chatted into the night. At ten we headed back to Leh in time for the full moon party.
Everyone was waiting at K.C. Garden whose owners were throwing the party. Lots of israelis and european tourists waiting for buses to take them to a secret location. Olik and I rode the bike behind the bus and arrived at the secret location after 25 minutes. The party was in the middle of a huge field surrounded by mountains and we danced until 7 AM.
After a few days lounging about and doing nothing particular except for enjoying myself, I decided to take a motorcycle trip to one of the surrounding areas. Nubra Valley is about six hours from Leh and we decided to go visit.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
Stok-Kangri
I have to write fast because im still in Leh and the internet is damned expensive. Next trip: im bringing my own computer!
Some places let me write in WORD for cheaper rate and then upload to the computer but I havent found a place like this right now. Thank god I can speed type.
So we were at the base camp at a level of 5100 meters and the time was about 2AM. We started walking. Nagmyal first, then Yoav, then Olik and then me, bringing up the rear. The weather stood still at about freezing, and we were each carrying about 30 kilos in clothing, plus a backpack each with metal spikes to clip onto our shoes and a big ice ax.
The first ascent came quickly, and it was one we knew was coming as we could see it from camp. The first two minutes were fine, I was walking at a brisk pace and breathing normally. After this, however, my breathing began to lag, and I immediately felt that all the food I was encouraged to consume the night before was slowly trying to break free of my body. I walked "slowly...slowly" as Nagmyal had encouraged us, and breathed deeply and rhythmically, but the higher we went, the more nauseaus I felt. I told the group to stop.
I took off my gloves and tried to vomit into the freezing nocturnal low-oxygen air. Nothing. We kept walking. Every so often Olik asked to rest, his cigarette smoke loaded lungs not bearing well with extremely thin air. With flashlights we followed the precarious path higher and higher, and the nausea was only getting worse. I was breathing like a pack mule after a very very long day in the fields. Only the breathing was slower, one breath with each step, each step slower then the one before it.
I tried puking twice more and even tried to take a shit, just to get everything out of me. But nothing came. Nagmyal knew I wasnt going to make to the top, and I knew it to. In a way, I was fine with this, and at certain points I hoped my body would just cave in and fall, and that way I would not need to make the decision to turn back round on my own. The sun started coming up at around 4:30AM, and we were taking more frequent rest stops. Nagmyal, as usual, smoked his cigarettes and remained silent. He knew it was only a matter of time before the first of us dropped. He was also hoping, I think, that if one dropped, we would all need to return to base camp as a group and forfeit the climb. Not so easy.
At 6AM we reached the advanced base camp at 5500 meters and, feeling like 1000 pounds, we managed to squeeze ever fewer steps out of our ravaged bodies. We made it to 5600, or thereabouts. We were walking on slippery ice at this point, a huge glacier approaching us, and I couldnt walk more then five steps without keeling over. I decided I could not go on for I could barely breath and was feeling extreme nauseau. To continue at this point would be risking extreme high altitude sickness and even DEATH.
Olik and I decided to turn back....enough is enough we said. But Yoav wanted to continue, and Nagmyal said we should all go back. A moment of tension between us, Yoav stated firmly that he would continue alone if need be. Nagmyal, irritated, continued upward with Yoav as Olik and I started the descent.
Descending was easier then climbing but still taxing. The walk back to base camp was long and arduous, but the view from this high with the sun rising above us was, and I dont say this lightly, the most spectacular view Ive ever seen in my life. The sun rising slowly over the himalayan range, the clouds parting, ever imaginaeable hew of brown and blue and green merging together and becoming brighter by the minute. By the time we reached the last descent, I decided I wanted to savor the view from this peak. I took a seat and fell asleep on the sand while Olik continued to base camp. I woke up an hour later, stunned by the 360 degree view surrounding me.
I continued on to base camp around 8AM. After saying hello and giving a brief description of our non-successful attempt to climb to 6100 to a group of fellow trekkers, I arrived at our tents. The cook reminded me that the climb was actually a success, as I had reached 5600 meters, and that many many many dont make it the first time. For my first trek I had certainly attained great heights. In fact, we were the only trekkers with no experience who had attempted this trek. We were also the only Israelis. All the other trekkers, and there were about six other groups, were groups from France, Belgium, Italy, Germany and Austria who had all come to India to trek in Ladakh, and brought all the best North Face gear, a wealth of experience garnered through years of trekking in the Alps, and most importantly, they were all on 8-10 day treks that had culminated with the Stok-Kangri peak after making successfull high altitude pass crossings in the week before, allowing for proper acclimatisation. Our problem, I'm quite certain is that we made the limb from 3700 to 6100 way too fast.
Anyways excuses are lame and Ill concur Stok-Kangri some other time. Olik and I both felt good about the trek so far, even though we didnt make it to the top, and while waiting for Nagmyal and Yoav to return, we decided we wanted to concur at least one other shorter peak before returning to Leh. We had the whole day in front of us, and we were to spend the night at the same place. We took a long nap, and, rejuvinated, boworred a set of snow-trekking sticks from an Austrian couple. These sticks are a godsend, and I'm certain that if we had them during Stok-Kangri we would have made it.
We spotted a peak near base camp which was apparently 5700 meters high, and started climbing. We took our metal spikes because we wanted to climb some glaciers, damnit! The climb was hard, obviously, but without our guide, we climbed at our own pace. I quickly developed a strategy: five steps, five seconds rest. This soon grew into shorter steps and longer rests, but we made it. It was insanely difficult, especially since we hadnt rested that much since the previous night's climb. I had wanted to turn back at certain points, not sure why we were making ourselves suffer in such a way, but Olik had the determination to persist and reach the glacier. I was less excited about the thought of climbing ice, but Olik, who grew up in Israel, has seen little snow in his lifetime.
We reached the foot of the glacier and we were mad with joy as we dawned our spikes. We climbed a few meters in the ice, realized the whole thing could just cave in, and having no guide, opted against climbing to the very very top. What if we lost our grip and slid down into the steep jagged rocks below? We took out our Tibetan flag, hung it, took many many pictures and videos in which Olik shouted mad love induce rantings and proposals of marriage to his ex-girlfriend, and ate chocolates we brought with us. Then we ran down, and I mean ran.
Yoav and Nagmyal had come back and were resting in their tents by the time we got back. We conversed with the Austrian couple, Mikael and Nicole, both in their mid 30's and avid trekkers and nature lovers, and gave back the sticks (without which we would not have reached the glacier).
That night we sat and laughed with Nagmyal, Yoav, the cook Tal and the Donkey man as we reminisced about the crazy trek and reassured ourselves that the climb was actually a success and not a failure and we had reached dizzying heights nevertheless. Yoav felt ill at night having suffered milk sun stroke, but was fine. He showed us pictures from the peak and we felt like we had been right up there with him, we were so happy that he made it, and yet surprisingly, not dissapointed that we hadnt. I think the glacier we concured during the day had strengthened our resolve and confidence in our trekking abilities. Next time we would concur Stok-Kangri. Anways hey, we made it to 5700 meters from 3700 meters, not bad for a first trek.
Tapka, the 24 year old guide for the austrian couple came to smoke a victory joint with us in our tent later in the night and told us some seriously funny stories. He's been trekking for years and has a record of climbing Stok-Kangri in three hours; for most trekkers it takes about six. He basically runs up the side of the mountain as if its nothing for him, a joint hanging from his mouth as he does so. He's seen a lot of things during his climbs and he told us a story about the Donkey Man who sleeps with his donkeys, the orgies he's witnessed between trekkers of different nationalities, his own sexual escapades with lonely trekker girls from China and the U.S., and best of all a weird story of how all men god their ding dongs. Sufficiently teary eyed from laughing, we went to sleep that third night in very high spirits.
We woke early and after breakfast, started the long walk back to Stok village. We reached Stok at 1PM and waited for our jeep to arrive for about one hour. We drank a aweful tasting victory beer with some serious Danish trekkers who had also climbed Stok but with great difficulty, and then drove back to Leh. We took some final pics with Namgyal, Tal and Tsewang the agent, and went to find a guesthouse with a really hot shower. This was about ten days ago.
Just so the world knows Im going back to Manali tomorrow or the next day where the internet is a whole lot cheaper and faster, and where I'll probably compose the next post.
Some places let me write in WORD for cheaper rate and then upload to the computer but I havent found a place like this right now. Thank god I can speed type.
So we were at the base camp at a level of 5100 meters and the time was about 2AM. We started walking. Nagmyal first, then Yoav, then Olik and then me, bringing up the rear. The weather stood still at about freezing, and we were each carrying about 30 kilos in clothing, plus a backpack each with metal spikes to clip onto our shoes and a big ice ax.
The first ascent came quickly, and it was one we knew was coming as we could see it from camp. The first two minutes were fine, I was walking at a brisk pace and breathing normally. After this, however, my breathing began to lag, and I immediately felt that all the food I was encouraged to consume the night before was slowly trying to break free of my body. I walked "slowly...slowly" as Nagmyal had encouraged us, and breathed deeply and rhythmically, but the higher we went, the more nauseaus I felt. I told the group to stop.
I took off my gloves and tried to vomit into the freezing nocturnal low-oxygen air. Nothing. We kept walking. Every so often Olik asked to rest, his cigarette smoke loaded lungs not bearing well with extremely thin air. With flashlights we followed the precarious path higher and higher, and the nausea was only getting worse. I was breathing like a pack mule after a very very long day in the fields. Only the breathing was slower, one breath with each step, each step slower then the one before it.
I tried puking twice more and even tried to take a shit, just to get everything out of me. But nothing came. Nagmyal knew I wasnt going to make to the top, and I knew it to. In a way, I was fine with this, and at certain points I hoped my body would just cave in and fall, and that way I would not need to make the decision to turn back round on my own. The sun started coming up at around 4:30AM, and we were taking more frequent rest stops. Nagmyal, as usual, smoked his cigarettes and remained silent. He knew it was only a matter of time before the first of us dropped. He was also hoping, I think, that if one dropped, we would all need to return to base camp as a group and forfeit the climb. Not so easy.
At 6AM we reached the advanced base camp at 5500 meters and, feeling like 1000 pounds, we managed to squeeze ever fewer steps out of our ravaged bodies. We made it to 5600, or thereabouts. We were walking on slippery ice at this point, a huge glacier approaching us, and I couldnt walk more then five steps without keeling over. I decided I could not go on for I could barely breath and was feeling extreme nauseau. To continue at this point would be risking extreme high altitude sickness and even DEATH.
Olik and I decided to turn back....enough is enough we said. But Yoav wanted to continue, and Nagmyal said we should all go back. A moment of tension between us, Yoav stated firmly that he would continue alone if need be. Nagmyal, irritated, continued upward with Yoav as Olik and I started the descent.
Descending was easier then climbing but still taxing. The walk back to base camp was long and arduous, but the view from this high with the sun rising above us was, and I dont say this lightly, the most spectacular view Ive ever seen in my life. The sun rising slowly over the himalayan range, the clouds parting, ever imaginaeable hew of brown and blue and green merging together and becoming brighter by the minute. By the time we reached the last descent, I decided I wanted to savor the view from this peak. I took a seat and fell asleep on the sand while Olik continued to base camp. I woke up an hour later, stunned by the 360 degree view surrounding me.
I continued on to base camp around 8AM. After saying hello and giving a brief description of our non-successful attempt to climb to 6100 to a group of fellow trekkers, I arrived at our tents. The cook reminded me that the climb was actually a success, as I had reached 5600 meters, and that many many many dont make it the first time. For my first trek I had certainly attained great heights. In fact, we were the only trekkers with no experience who had attempted this trek. We were also the only Israelis. All the other trekkers, and there were about six other groups, were groups from France, Belgium, Italy, Germany and Austria who had all come to India to trek in Ladakh, and brought all the best North Face gear, a wealth of experience garnered through years of trekking in the Alps, and most importantly, they were all on 8-10 day treks that had culminated with the Stok-Kangri peak after making successfull high altitude pass crossings in the week before, allowing for proper acclimatisation. Our problem, I'm quite certain is that we made the limb from 3700 to 6100 way too fast.
Anyways excuses are lame and Ill concur Stok-Kangri some other time. Olik and I both felt good about the trek so far, even though we didnt make it to the top, and while waiting for Nagmyal and Yoav to return, we decided we wanted to concur at least one other shorter peak before returning to Leh. We had the whole day in front of us, and we were to spend the night at the same place. We took a long nap, and, rejuvinated, boworred a set of snow-trekking sticks from an Austrian couple. These sticks are a godsend, and I'm certain that if we had them during Stok-Kangri we would have made it.
We spotted a peak near base camp which was apparently 5700 meters high, and started climbing. We took our metal spikes because we wanted to climb some glaciers, damnit! The climb was hard, obviously, but without our guide, we climbed at our own pace. I quickly developed a strategy: five steps, five seconds rest. This soon grew into shorter steps and longer rests, but we made it. It was insanely difficult, especially since we hadnt rested that much since the previous night's climb. I had wanted to turn back at certain points, not sure why we were making ourselves suffer in such a way, but Olik had the determination to persist and reach the glacier. I was less excited about the thought of climbing ice, but Olik, who grew up in Israel, has seen little snow in his lifetime.
We reached the foot of the glacier and we were mad with joy as we dawned our spikes. We climbed a few meters in the ice, realized the whole thing could just cave in, and having no guide, opted against climbing to the very very top. What if we lost our grip and slid down into the steep jagged rocks below? We took out our Tibetan flag, hung it, took many many pictures and videos in which Olik shouted mad love induce rantings and proposals of marriage to his ex-girlfriend, and ate chocolates we brought with us. Then we ran down, and I mean ran.
Yoav and Nagmyal had come back and were resting in their tents by the time we got back. We conversed with the Austrian couple, Mikael and Nicole, both in their mid 30's and avid trekkers and nature lovers, and gave back the sticks (without which we would not have reached the glacier).
That night we sat and laughed with Nagmyal, Yoav, the cook Tal and the Donkey man as we reminisced about the crazy trek and reassured ourselves that the climb was actually a success and not a failure and we had reached dizzying heights nevertheless. Yoav felt ill at night having suffered milk sun stroke, but was fine. He showed us pictures from the peak and we felt like we had been right up there with him, we were so happy that he made it, and yet surprisingly, not dissapointed that we hadnt. I think the glacier we concured during the day had strengthened our resolve and confidence in our trekking abilities. Next time we would concur Stok-Kangri. Anways hey, we made it to 5700 meters from 3700 meters, not bad for a first trek.
Tapka, the 24 year old guide for the austrian couple came to smoke a victory joint with us in our tent later in the night and told us some seriously funny stories. He's been trekking for years and has a record of climbing Stok-Kangri in three hours; for most trekkers it takes about six. He basically runs up the side of the mountain as if its nothing for him, a joint hanging from his mouth as he does so. He's seen a lot of things during his climbs and he told us a story about the Donkey Man who sleeps with his donkeys, the orgies he's witnessed between trekkers of different nationalities, his own sexual escapades with lonely trekker girls from China and the U.S., and best of all a weird story of how all men god their ding dongs. Sufficiently teary eyed from laughing, we went to sleep that third night in very high spirits.
We woke early and after breakfast, started the long walk back to Stok village. We reached Stok at 1PM and waited for our jeep to arrive for about one hour. We drank a aweful tasting victory beer with some serious Danish trekkers who had also climbed Stok but with great difficulty, and then drove back to Leh. We took some final pics with Namgyal, Tal and Tsewang the agent, and went to find a guesthouse with a really hot shower. This was about ten days ago.
Just so the world knows Im going back to Manali tomorrow or the next day where the internet is a whole lot cheaper and faster, and where I'll probably compose the next post.
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
Leh
We organized our trip through Himalayan Adventure Outback Travels with a very pleasant and knowledgeable 27 yr old travel agent and former trekking guide named Tsewang. At first Olik and I had assured him that we would be getting a group together for the trek. We spent the next two days trying to find people but to no avail. It ended up being Olik and me, and one other 23 yr old
The price was relatively high, at $42/day. Normally treks are not so pricey, but everything is more expensive in Leh due to the high elevation and higher cost of shipping food and materials. Also, a climbing trek is more expensive than a regular walking trek due to the safety and climbing equipment needed such as ice picks and spikes for the shoes to walk on glaciers, as well as highly trained climbing guide. The price also included a full time cook and food, a donkey man, five donkeys, all the tents, mattresses and sleeping bags. We got lucky with the best guide available, Nagmyal.
We met at six on the morning of the trek after placing most of our luggage in the Jewish House with Nachmun, the “warm and fuzzy” rabbinical student. I had bought some extra clothing for the trek, including a genuine Yak beanie that was just finished by an old lady sowing beanies in a small local market for 140 rupees. I also bought a double fleece sheep wool coat that would surely keep me warm in the sub freezing temperatures nighttime temperatures of
After loading the jeep with our equipment and bags (I took only my blue backpack) we headed to
The weather in Leh and Stok is hot during the day and shivering cold at night, and in the high altitude of Stok these differences are even more pronounced. As the weather turned cold we added layers of clothing, and by
Most of the time we sat with Nagmyal, our Ladahky guide with big dark dreadlocks hanging together in blue-pink head scarf. Nagmyal is a 27 year old Ladaky trekking guide who has been leading treks for the past 8 years. Before that he learnt the ropes by being a porter or helping out other guides on similar treks. He grew up in a small Tibetan village on the outskirts of Leh with his parents and brother and sister. He never went to school but instead spent time working with his mother and father in the house milking cows and making cheese. His passable English he learnt from a friend, and his life experience led him the aura of a wise Tibetan scholar. Nagmyal also had an eight year old son produced from a fling with a girl when he was 18 years old. The mother had long since disappeared, and Nagmyal told me his life now was all for his son; to give his son the education and life that Nagmyal’s parents could not afford to give him.
He now drove a 500cc Honda that he had bought with savings, and was saving more to open a outdoor camping equipment store in Leh. Trekking guides, and especially climbing guides with knowledge of a foreign language could make good money in Leh. Though the season is only four to five months long, the guides work round the clock to save money because they are basically unemployable the rest of the year. Leading treks in other parts of the country or in
We slept extremely well that first night and were woken at six in the morning by the cook with two cups of tea. Olik and I shared one tent, while Yoav was alone in another. After waking up and having a breakfast of omelettes, toast, jam and cereal, we packed our things and headed out towards the base camp. We left before the cook and donkey man had wrapped up all our things, and as usual they were to meet us at our destination.
The trek was short but difficult. At an altitutude of over 4700 meters we were beginning to feel the effects of high altitude trekking: difficulty breathing and constant lethargy. The path was rocky and steep, and with every step the walk became more difficult. Olik had particular trouble due to his cigarette smoking, while I coasted along pretty much until the end, where I started falling behind. Yoav, the star trekker walked with along with Naymyal far ahead and reached the base camp 20 minutes before Olik and I.
At base camp we setup the tent, drank more tea, and stared engagingly at the huge snow-capped Himalayan peaks that suddenly surrounded us from all directions. We were at 5100 meters now and the weather was cold even when we arrived at
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Leh
This post contains redundant information...
I left Lumuruyu in the morning after a Tibetan breakfast and, after buying two identical postcards picturing a very old Tibetan woman in traditional dress, continued on to Leh. The ride was one hundred kilometers through more of the same winding hills and valleys that I saw on the ride to Kargil, but with less vegetation and a hotter, drier climate. The road peaked up and swerved down after increasingly tight turns that left room for many driving errors. For instance, at many points I pictured myself sliding on a cluster of loose sand while driving at 40 km around a 360-degree turn and trying to avoid a loud colorful semi coming from the opposite direction; the motorcycle skids and it and I glide blissfully into the deep desert valley below.
My visions of the future failed to become reality and I made it Leh safe and sound at about four in the afternoon, hungry and tired. I wanted something authentic and cheap, especially after gorging on junk food for two weeks in Kashmir, so I tried the dirtiest Dhaba I could find and ordered Thali. My mind at ease but my stomach sorely in need of a bathroom and my body in need of a shower, I tried to locate a guesthouse in the Old Town of Leh that the guidebook recommended. After two hours and a nervous breakdown I found another guesthouse and took a small room for 100 rupees. Babu Guesthouse was basically a building with small, shabby rooms and two outhouses with no hot shower (and no hot bucket I found out later.)
I organized my things and even did laundry with some primitive washing soap that you need to scrub intensely into the clothing for a few long minutes. The landlady told me it’d be better to buy the powder and do it in a bucket, but I had seen women doing it the hard way during my rides through the village and I wanted to try it myself. I succeeded with the laundry, leaving jeans and fleece for the professional Laundromats (these places also use the old methods; washing machines are rarely available in these parts).
I took a walk through the city, and met Olik and Anastasia which I now remember I already wrote about all this…
Long story short Leh is awesome. The city is mainly comprised of Ladakhys who are a kind of Tibetan refugee community from years ago who speak Ladakhy, and most also speak Hindi and Tibetan.
Olik and Anastasia were sharing a room in a guesthouse in the New Town where the members of the old group were also staying. Some tension had risen among different members of the Kashmir group, and at this point it occurred to Olik and I should leave the group and continue traveling together. We had become quite good friends in Kashmir, riding the motorbike to the city and taking the Shikara out for rides to the floating gardens. The group itself had also become unappealing to us. What was enjoyable in Kashmir because it was Kashmir (i.e. smoking pot all day long and lounging on Shikaras in a majestic lake) was not that fun in Ladakh. Leh is a city beautiful because it is surrounded by the Himalayas and because of its rich Tibetan culture, and it offers an endless array of trekking, rafting, camel riding, safaris, biking, as well as jeep trips to the multitude of surrounding villages, lakes, waterfalls etc… In Leh I wanted to take advantage of these activities and sights and so did Olik. We had decided in Kashmir to do a trek together in Leh, and we started searching out agencies to plan our adventure.
First thing Olik and Anastasia organized a bike trip for the whole group that included a jeep ride up to the highest drivable pass in the world (Khardung La – 5400 meters) and mountain bike ride all the way down back to Leh. I was going to accompany them on my motorcycle. A few days later the trip commenced and we made our way to the highest pass in the world. The ride up was splendid but the pass itself unimpressive. We took snapshots next to a sign proclaiming this the “highest pass in the world” and started downhill after a cup of tea.
Most of the group rode ahead fast, while I stayed back with the follow jeep and Anastasia and Olik. After five minutes I saw Olik surge past a turn, and after I had made the turn, saw Olik’s bike on the dirt and Olik getting up from the ground. He had crashed head first into a large boulder on the side of the road and was lucky to be alive, thanks to his cheap Indian helmet that was sharply dented in the front as a result of crash. He smoked one cigarette calmly, obviously shocked up the experience, and to our surprise, got on his bike and continued riding. I also continued with Anastasia who was riding the slowest, and since the ride was all downhill, I turned my bike off and drove the whole way in neutral side by side Anastasia on her bike.
When we arrived and returned the bikes I found Olik and took him to the hospital. He was certain he had a brain aneurysm due to the high impact and the intense pain he was feeling in his head, neck and shoulders. I assured him he’d be all right, though I had no idea in the least what the diagnosis would be. We found the hospital on the main road with the help of a few kind strangers, and walked into the emergency room, here called “casualty blocks.” There were no doctors to be found, and only a few nurses attending to many sad looking patients waiting on hospital beds in large rooms. A nurse directed us to a room where for 2 rupees only Olik filled out a form to see a doctor. Five minutes later we were in a room with a desk and a doctor dressed casually, who check the nervous Olik and assured him that his injuries were minor and inconsequential, that he’d be fine in a few days, and that he could go on the trek we were planning to leave for in two days. He said only that he should see the orthopedic specialist the next day for a second opinion. The next day we went to see the specialist who we found out was on leave. Another surgeon gave Olik the green light and we left for our trek two days later.
We were in Leh a full six days before the trek and we spent much of this time organizing the bicycle ride and the trek, as well as visiting the Jewish house, meeting older Israelis, exploring Ladakhy culture and eating Momo. Most of the nights I slept with Olik and Anastasia in their room because riding to my guesthouse in Old Town at three in morning in the frigid night air of Leh seemed unappealing and precarious. We shared good times here and Olik and I built a more solid friendship. We also started talking about opening a bar together once were both back in Israel and we stayed up late most of these nights discussing ideas and other important life matters. Olik had recently split from a long time girlfriend and many of our weightier conversations were related to this subject matter.
We had visited the Jewish house a few times to hear lectures which I found annoying and irrelevant to my India experience, but I enjoyed sitting with Israelis and also had developed a strange fondness for the young rabbinical student running the place with his wife and three daughters. He emitted a warmth, permanence and familiarity that I found attractive in the touristy and ever changing face of Leh. After the crash, Olik had wanted to do what is known in Hebrew as “birkat ha gomel” which is a prayer of thanks to God for having spared ones life in a disaster, or something like this. We went the same day of the crash and Olik told the story of his accident to a large Friday night crowd and then performed the prayer with a yamakah on his head. I listened and watched as people approached after and asked about his experience, and then we went out to a late dinner with two religious Jewish girls who were obviously attracted to Olik’s daring maneuvers and desire to be closer to God through acceptance of his accident and his fate.
I left Lumuruyu in the morning after a Tibetan breakfast and, after buying two identical postcards picturing a very old Tibetan woman in traditional dress, continued on to Leh. The ride was one hundred kilometers through more of the same winding hills and valleys that I saw on the ride to Kargil, but with less vegetation and a hotter, drier climate. The road peaked up and swerved down after increasingly tight turns that left room for many driving errors. For instance, at many points I pictured myself sliding on a cluster of loose sand while driving at 40 km around a 360-degree turn and trying to avoid a loud colorful semi coming from the opposite direction; the motorcycle skids and it and I glide blissfully into the deep desert valley below.
My visions of the future failed to become reality and I made it Leh safe and sound at about four in the afternoon, hungry and tired. I wanted something authentic and cheap, especially after gorging on junk food for two weeks in Kashmir, so I tried the dirtiest Dhaba I could find and ordered Thali. My mind at ease but my stomach sorely in need of a bathroom and my body in need of a shower, I tried to locate a guesthouse in the Old Town of Leh that the guidebook recommended. After two hours and a nervous breakdown I found another guesthouse and took a small room for 100 rupees. Babu Guesthouse was basically a building with small, shabby rooms and two outhouses with no hot shower (and no hot bucket I found out later.)
I organized my things and even did laundry with some primitive washing soap that you need to scrub intensely into the clothing for a few long minutes. The landlady told me it’d be better to buy the powder and do it in a bucket, but I had seen women doing it the hard way during my rides through the village and I wanted to try it myself. I succeeded with the laundry, leaving jeans and fleece for the professional Laundromats (these places also use the old methods; washing machines are rarely available in these parts).
I took a walk through the city, and met Olik and Anastasia which I now remember I already wrote about all this…
Long story short Leh is awesome. The city is mainly comprised of Ladakhys who are a kind of Tibetan refugee community from years ago who speak Ladakhy, and most also speak Hindi and Tibetan.
Olik and Anastasia were sharing a room in a guesthouse in the New Town where the members of the old group were also staying. Some tension had risen among different members of the Kashmir group, and at this point it occurred to Olik and I should leave the group and continue traveling together. We had become quite good friends in Kashmir, riding the motorbike to the city and taking the Shikara out for rides to the floating gardens. The group itself had also become unappealing to us. What was enjoyable in Kashmir because it was Kashmir (i.e. smoking pot all day long and lounging on Shikaras in a majestic lake) was not that fun in Ladakh. Leh is a city beautiful because it is surrounded by the Himalayas and because of its rich Tibetan culture, and it offers an endless array of trekking, rafting, camel riding, safaris, biking, as well as jeep trips to the multitude of surrounding villages, lakes, waterfalls etc… In Leh I wanted to take advantage of these activities and sights and so did Olik. We had decided in Kashmir to do a trek together in Leh, and we started searching out agencies to plan our adventure.
First thing Olik and Anastasia organized a bike trip for the whole group that included a jeep ride up to the highest drivable pass in the world (Khardung La – 5400 meters) and mountain bike ride all the way down back to Leh. I was going to accompany them on my motorcycle. A few days later the trip commenced and we made our way to the highest pass in the world. The ride up was splendid but the pass itself unimpressive. We took snapshots next to a sign proclaiming this the “highest pass in the world” and started downhill after a cup of tea.
Most of the group rode ahead fast, while I stayed back with the follow jeep and Anastasia and Olik. After five minutes I saw Olik surge past a turn, and after I had made the turn, saw Olik’s bike on the dirt and Olik getting up from the ground. He had crashed head first into a large boulder on the side of the road and was lucky to be alive, thanks to his cheap Indian helmet that was sharply dented in the front as a result of crash. He smoked one cigarette calmly, obviously shocked up the experience, and to our surprise, got on his bike and continued riding. I also continued with Anastasia who was riding the slowest, and since the ride was all downhill, I turned my bike off and drove the whole way in neutral side by side Anastasia on her bike.
When we arrived and returned the bikes I found Olik and took him to the hospital. He was certain he had a brain aneurysm due to the high impact and the intense pain he was feeling in his head, neck and shoulders. I assured him he’d be all right, though I had no idea in the least what the diagnosis would be. We found the hospital on the main road with the help of a few kind strangers, and walked into the emergency room, here called “casualty blocks.” There were no doctors to be found, and only a few nurses attending to many sad looking patients waiting on hospital beds in large rooms. A nurse directed us to a room where for 2 rupees only Olik filled out a form to see a doctor. Five minutes later we were in a room with a desk and a doctor dressed casually, who check the nervous Olik and assured him that his injuries were minor and inconsequential, that he’d be fine in a few days, and that he could go on the trek we were planning to leave for in two days. He said only that he should see the orthopedic specialist the next day for a second opinion. The next day we went to see the specialist who we found out was on leave. Another surgeon gave Olik the green light and we left for our trek two days later.
We were in Leh a full six days before the trek and we spent much of this time organizing the bicycle ride and the trek, as well as visiting the Jewish house, meeting older Israelis, exploring Ladakhy culture and eating Momo. Most of the nights I slept with Olik and Anastasia in their room because riding to my guesthouse in Old Town at three in morning in the frigid night air of Leh seemed unappealing and precarious. We shared good times here and Olik and I built a more solid friendship. We also started talking about opening a bar together once were both back in Israel and we stayed up late most of these nights discussing ideas and other important life matters. Olik had recently split from a long time girlfriend and many of our weightier conversations were related to this subject matter.
We had visited the Jewish house a few times to hear lectures which I found annoying and irrelevant to my India experience, but I enjoyed sitting with Israelis and also had developed a strange fondness for the young rabbinical student running the place with his wife and three daughters. He emitted a warmth, permanence and familiarity that I found attractive in the touristy and ever changing face of Leh. After the crash, Olik had wanted to do what is known in Hebrew as “birkat ha gomel” which is a prayer of thanks to God for having spared ones life in a disaster, or something like this. We went the same day of the crash and Olik told the story of his accident to a large Friday night crowd and then performed the prayer with a yamakah on his head. I listened and watched as people approached after and asked about his experience, and then we went out to a late dinner with two religious Jewish girls who were obviously attracted to Olik’s daring maneuvers and desire to be closer to God through acceptance of his accident and his fate.
Leh
I left Lumuruyu in the morning after a Tibetan breakfast and, after buying two identical postcards picturing a very old Tibetan woman in traditional dress, continued on to Leh. The ride was one hundred kilometers through more of the same winding hills and valleys that I saw on the ride to Kargil, but with less vegetation and a hotter, drier climate. The road peaked up and swerved down after increasingly tight turns that left room for many driving errors. For instance, at many points I pictured myself sliding on a cluster of loose sand while driving at 40 km around a 360-degree turn and trying to avoid a loud colorful semi coming from the opposite direction; the motorcycle skids and it and I glide blissfully into the deep desert valley below.
My visions of the future failed to become reality and I made it Leh safe and sound at about four in the afternoon, hungry and tired. I wanted something authentic and cheap, especially after gorging on junk food for two weeks in Kashmir, so I tried the dirtiest Dhaba I could find and ordered Thali. My mind at ease but my stomach sorely in need of a bathroom and my body in need of a shower, I tried to locate a guesthouse in the Old Town of Leh that the guidebook recommended. After two hours and a nervous breakdown I found another guesthouse and took a small room for 100 rupees. Babu Guesthouse was basically a building with small, shabby rooms and two outhouses with no hot shower (and no hot bucket I found out later.)
I organized my things and even did laundry with some primitive washing soap that you need to scrub intensely into the clothing for a few long minutes. The landlady told me it’d be better to buy the powder and do it in a bucket, but I had seen women doing it the hard way during my rides through the village and I wanted to try it myself. I succeeded with the laundry, leaving jeans and fleece for the professional Laundromats (these places also use the old methods; washing machines are rarely available in these parts).
I took a walk through the city, and met Olik and Anastasia which I now remember I already wrote about all this…
Long story short Leh is awesome. The city is mainly comprised of Ladakhys who are a kind of Tibetan refugee community from years ago who speak Ladakhy, and most also speak Hindi and Tibetan.
Olik and Anastasia were sharing a room in a guesthouse in the New Town where the members of the old group were also staying. Some tension had risen among different members of the Kashmir group, and at this point it occurred to Olik and I should leave the group and continue traveling together. We had become quite good friends in Kashmir, riding the motorbike to the city and taking the Shikara out for rides to the floating gardens. The group itself had also become unappealing to us. What was enjoyable in Kashmir because it was Kashmir (i.e. smoking pot all day long and lounging on Shikaras in a majestic lake) was not that fun in Ladakh. Leh is a city beautiful because it is surrounded by the Himalayas and because of its rich Tibetan culture, and it offers an endless array of trekking, rafting, camel riding, safaris, biking, as well as jeep trips to the multitude of surrounding villages, lakes, waterfalls etc… In Leh I wanted to take advantage of these activities and sights and so did Olik. We had decided in Kashmir to do a trek together in Leh, and we started searching out agencies to plan our adventure.
First thing Olik and Anastasia organized a bike trip for the whole group that included a jeep ride up to the highest drivable pass in the world (Khardung La – 5400 meters) and mountain bike ride all the way down back to Leh. I was going to accompany them on my motorcycle. A few days later the trip commenced and we made our way to the highest pass in the world. The ride up was splendid but the pass itself unimpressive. We took snapshots next to a sign proclaiming this the “highest pass in the world” and started downhill after a cup of tea.
Most of the group rode ahead fast, while I stayed back with the follow jeep and Anastasia and Olik. After five minutes I saw Olik surge past a turn, and after I had made the turn, saw Olik’s bike on the dirt and Olik getting up from the ground. He had crashed head first into a large boulder on the side of the road and was lucky to be alive, thanks to his cheap Indian helmet that was sharply dented in the front as a result of crash. He smoked one cigarette calmly, obviously shocked up the experience, and to our surprise, got on his bike and continued riding. I also continued with Anastasia who was riding the slowest, and since the ride was all downhill, I turned my bike off and drove the whole way in neutral side by side Anastasia on her bike.
When we arrived and returned the bikes I found Olik and took him to the hospital. He was certain he had a brain aneurysm due to the high impact and the intense pain he was feeling in his head, neck and shoulders. I assured him he’d be all right, though I had no idea in the least what the diagnosis would be. We found the hospital on the main road with the help of a few kind strangers, and walked into the emergency room, here called “casualty blocks.” There were no doctors to be found, and only a few nurses attending to many sad looking patients waiting on hospital beds in large rooms. A nurse directed us to a room where for 2 rupees only Olik filled out a form to see a doctor. Five minutes later we were in a room with a desk and a doctor dressed casually, who check the nervous Olik and assured him that his injuries were minor and inconsequential, that he’d be fine in a few days, and that he could go on the trek we were planning to leave for in two days. He said only that he should see the orthopedic specialist the next day for a second opinion. The next day we went to see the specialist who we found out was on leave. Another surgeon gave Olik the green light and we left for our trek two days later.
We were in Leh a full six days before the trek and we spent much of this time organizing the bicycle ride and the trek, as well as visiting the Jewish house, meeting older Israelis, exploring Ladakhy culture and eating Momo. Most of the nights I slept with Olik and Anastasia in their room because riding to my guesthouse in Old Town at three in morning in the frigid night air of Leh seemed unappealing and precarious. We shared good times here and Olik and I built a more solid friendship. We also started talking about opening a bar together once were both back in Israel and we stayed up late most of these nights discussing ideas and other important life matters. Olik had recently split from a long time girlfriend and many of our weightier conversations were related to this subject matter.
We had visited the Jewish house a few times to hear lectures which I found annoying and irrelevant to my India experience, but I enjoyed sitting with Israelis and also had developed a strange fondness for the young rabbinical student running the place with his wife and three daughters. He emitted a warmth, permanence and familiarity that I found attractive in the touristy and ever changing face of Leh. After the crash, Olik had wanted to do what is known in Hebrew as “birkat ha gomel” which is a prayer of thanks to God for having spared ones life in a disaster, or something like this. We went the same day of the crash and Olik told the story of his accident to a large Friday night crowd and then performed the prayer with a yamakah on his head. I listened and watched as people approached after and asked about his experience, and then we went out to a late dinner with two religious Jewish girls who were obviously attracted to Olik’s daring maneuvers and desire to be closer to God through acceptance of his accident and his fate.
My visions of the future failed to become reality and I made it Leh safe and sound at about four in the afternoon, hungry and tired. I wanted something authentic and cheap, especially after gorging on junk food for two weeks in Kashmir, so I tried the dirtiest Dhaba I could find and ordered Thali. My mind at ease but my stomach sorely in need of a bathroom and my body in need of a shower, I tried to locate a guesthouse in the Old Town of Leh that the guidebook recommended. After two hours and a nervous breakdown I found another guesthouse and took a small room for 100 rupees. Babu Guesthouse was basically a building with small, shabby rooms and two outhouses with no hot shower (and no hot bucket I found out later.)
I organized my things and even did laundry with some primitive washing soap that you need to scrub intensely into the clothing for a few long minutes. The landlady told me it’d be better to buy the powder and do it in a bucket, but I had seen women doing it the hard way during my rides through the village and I wanted to try it myself. I succeeded with the laundry, leaving jeans and fleece for the professional Laundromats (these places also use the old methods; washing machines are rarely available in these parts).
I took a walk through the city, and met Olik and Anastasia which I now remember I already wrote about all this…
Long story short Leh is awesome. The city is mainly comprised of Ladakhys who are a kind of Tibetan refugee community from years ago who speak Ladakhy, and most also speak Hindi and Tibetan.
Olik and Anastasia were sharing a room in a guesthouse in the New Town where the members of the old group were also staying. Some tension had risen among different members of the Kashmir group, and at this point it occurred to Olik and I should leave the group and continue traveling together. We had become quite good friends in Kashmir, riding the motorbike to the city and taking the Shikara out for rides to the floating gardens. The group itself had also become unappealing to us. What was enjoyable in Kashmir because it was Kashmir (i.e. smoking pot all day long and lounging on Shikaras in a majestic lake) was not that fun in Ladakh. Leh is a city beautiful because it is surrounded by the Himalayas and because of its rich Tibetan culture, and it offers an endless array of trekking, rafting, camel riding, safaris, biking, as well as jeep trips to the multitude of surrounding villages, lakes, waterfalls etc… In Leh I wanted to take advantage of these activities and sights and so did Olik. We had decided in Kashmir to do a trek together in Leh, and we started searching out agencies to plan our adventure.
First thing Olik and Anastasia organized a bike trip for the whole group that included a jeep ride up to the highest drivable pass in the world (Khardung La – 5400 meters) and mountain bike ride all the way down back to Leh. I was going to accompany them on my motorcycle. A few days later the trip commenced and we made our way to the highest pass in the world. The ride up was splendid but the pass itself unimpressive. We took snapshots next to a sign proclaiming this the “highest pass in the world” and started downhill after a cup of tea.
Most of the group rode ahead fast, while I stayed back with the follow jeep and Anastasia and Olik. After five minutes I saw Olik surge past a turn, and after I had made the turn, saw Olik’s bike on the dirt and Olik getting up from the ground. He had crashed head first into a large boulder on the side of the road and was lucky to be alive, thanks to his cheap Indian helmet that was sharply dented in the front as a result of crash. He smoked one cigarette calmly, obviously shocked up the experience, and to our surprise, got on his bike and continued riding. I also continued with Anastasia who was riding the slowest, and since the ride was all downhill, I turned my bike off and drove the whole way in neutral side by side Anastasia on her bike.
When we arrived and returned the bikes I found Olik and took him to the hospital. He was certain he had a brain aneurysm due to the high impact and the intense pain he was feeling in his head, neck and shoulders. I assured him he’d be all right, though I had no idea in the least what the diagnosis would be. We found the hospital on the main road with the help of a few kind strangers, and walked into the emergency room, here called “casualty blocks.” There were no doctors to be found, and only a few nurses attending to many sad looking patients waiting on hospital beds in large rooms. A nurse directed us to a room where for 2 rupees only Olik filled out a form to see a doctor. Five minutes later we were in a room with a desk and a doctor dressed casually, who check the nervous Olik and assured him that his injuries were minor and inconsequential, that he’d be fine in a few days, and that he could go on the trek we were planning to leave for in two days. He said only that he should see the orthopedic specialist the next day for a second opinion. The next day we went to see the specialist who we found out was on leave. Another surgeon gave Olik the green light and we left for our trek two days later.
We were in Leh a full six days before the trek and we spent much of this time organizing the bicycle ride and the trek, as well as visiting the Jewish house, meeting older Israelis, exploring Ladakhy culture and eating Momo. Most of the nights I slept with Olik and Anastasia in their room because riding to my guesthouse in Old Town at three in morning in the frigid night air of Leh seemed unappealing and precarious. We shared good times here and Olik and I built a more solid friendship. We also started talking about opening a bar together once were both back in Israel and we stayed up late most of these nights discussing ideas and other important life matters. Olik had recently split from a long time girlfriend and many of our weightier conversations were related to this subject matter.
We had visited the Jewish house a few times to hear lectures which I found annoying and irrelevant to my India experience, but I enjoyed sitting with Israelis and also had developed a strange fondness for the young rabbinical student running the place with his wife and three daughters. He emitted a warmth, permanence and familiarity that I found attractive in the touristy and ever changing face of Leh. After the crash, Olik had wanted to do what is known in Hebrew as “birkat ha gomel” which is a prayer of thanks to God for having spared ones life in a disaster, or something like this. We went the same day of the crash and Olik told the story of his accident to a large Friday night crowd and then performed the prayer with a yamakah on his head. I listened and watched as people approached after and asked about his experience, and then we went out to a late dinner with two religious Jewish girls who were obviously attracted to Olik’s daring maneuvers and desire to be closer to God through acceptance of his accident and his fate.
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