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.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
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.
Friday, July 27, 2007
Kargil-Leh
Ok let me just wrap up what happened in Kashmir and move on to Ladakh, which is where Ive been for nearly a week and a half and where a lot has happened and must must be written about.
In Kashmir we lounged about and lived life like Kings. The group of Israelis I was with were of a sort that likes to sit around and smoke pot all day long. Most of them rarely left the houseboat, maybe only to buy more "munchies."
I however, while also indulging in a form of vacation only possible to me and my fellow post-army Israelis in Kashmir, made a trip nearly everyday to the main city center.
Srinagar is a dirty, ugly city with 95% Muslim population. Many women walk around in long black burkas while the men look depressingly normal. The streets are long and windy, lacking any kind of organization, and leading easily to a state of "where the fuck am i!!!!???".
I had to take care of a few moto issues in Srinagar, including a basic checkup, since I had crossed the first 3000km by this point, and also I was to embark on a two day journey to Leh which I had to make sure my bike was ready for. A very kind Indian who actually loooks like a native american, accompanied me to the city a few times and took me to a good mechanic. I had the chain and sprocket replaced, as well as the front brakes, and some other minor repairs. I never knew about the clutch oil, now I know. I'm learning a lot about motorcycles and maintenance.
I took Olik along with me to the city a few times to the Lal Chowk district, or the main market. Here I wandered about trying to change money with my new credit card after losing my original one, and I also bought a few gifts. I made sure to purchase a few "pashminas" or shawls made of the ultra smooth hair on a goats chin. The real pashminas are 100% goat chin wool, but the ones I bought were 30% goat chin hair and 70% wool. The real pashminas start at 6000 ruppees, while mine cost about 200 ruppees each, but theyre still badass and surprisingly warm.
After two weeks of the same routine I, and some others in the group, was eager to get moving. The price of living was higher in Kashmir due to the high consumption of junk food and other uneccessary and wasteful expendistures. Some folks wanted to stay a few more days, but the majority decided to leave. Seven of us organized a jeep to Leh, Ladakh, while I organized my bike. Asher also rode his bike and took along Yossi for the ride.
I left early in the morning about two weeks ago to Kargil, a small village on the main rode between Srinagar and Leh. Leh is about 500 km east of Srinagar. The ride was certainly one of the most beautiful of this trip. Layers of hilly dessert mountains and valleys followed by green plateaus full of wild sheep and horses. It was hard to leave Kashmir and the lake and the shikaras, but now I was riding amidst the most glamorous scenery I had scene yet.
I reached the jeep a few times and overtook them, and make it to Kargil before the jeep by two hours even though I left two hours after them and took a couple long breaks in the middle of the trip. In Kargil I met the group and we took a hotel in the middle of the long barren one street village that on my road map is market as a major city, but is in fact a dirty, depressing Muslim town with out any redeeming features. Olik and Anastasia rode three-up on my motorcycle with me and tried to find a restaurant without any success. The best we found was a butcher displaying a row of sheep and goat heads still on sale from the morning; the rest of the body had already been sold.
I used the internet here and wrote about what happened two weeks before that, just like im doing now. There was also a group of enfield riders in our hotel, and I had started seeing large groups of organized bike tours on the way to Ladakh.
I set out from Kargil the following morning and rode all the way to Lamuruyu, another small village 100 km West of Leh. I found a hotel near the Buddhist monastery here and decided to stay for the night, not in any hurry to get to Leh. I ate some sketchy chow mein and slept most of the time here. I checked out the monastery and said hey to a couple monks, as well as gave a spin to the buddhist wheel, which is definitely good luck.
I continued through more majestic territory the next day and witnessed the land turn from Kashmiri green to Ladakhy desert. The mountains grew taller and taller as the road ascended to 3500 meters from Srinagars 1500. When I reached Leh I was exhausted by the glaring sun and also by the altitude difference. I ate another round of aweful thali, and spent two hours finding a obscure guesthouse listed in Lonely Planet. I finally found the Ladakh guesthouse but it was full and I took a room in Babu Guesthouse nextdoor. No shower, no hot bucket, bathroom outside, nice Tibetan innkeeper, 100 ruppees. Perfect. I still hadnt found the crew from Kashmir but I decided a few days without them would do me good.
I took a nap and then wandered through Leh. The city at first, like Srinagar was confusing, with a "new Leh" and an "old leh". I was in the old Leh, but all the internet shops and restaurants and people were in New Leh. I bought a few things I needed, like toothpaste and shaving cream, and stumbled upon Olik and anastasia in the Main Bazaar, watching a pair of photographers from England doing work for a New York Times magazine article called "faces of India." I got the British photographer to take a couple shots of Olik and I, and perhaps we'll be included in the article, though they said that from the hundreds of snapshots they will have to choose only eight.
From there we went to eat and met a older man named Moshe of about 50. A cigarette smoking machine with rough grey stubble and a good looking wife, Moshe was a reminder to me that people at 50 can still be remarkably cool. We chatted like old friends, and Moshe had no problems shooting the shit with 22, 24, and 27 yr olds. He told us about all his travels in India and the US, about his two grown kids at home who were our age. we continued to bump into Moshe and his wife in Leh until they left for Kashmir.
Leh is the capital of the state of Ladakh. Ladakhys are comprised of regular Indian citizens who are Hindu, and Tibetan Ladakhys who have refugee status. They all speak Ladakhy predominantly but most understand Hindi, Tibetan and even Kashmiri, as well as some English.
Olik and Anastasia were sharing a room in a guesthouse which was where the rest of our group was also staying. The group spirit had started to disintegrate once we left Kashmir, and it became obvious to me that I was not going to continue traveling with them. In Kashmir we shared a houseboat and lived the life of glamorous hippie stoners, which went well with the lake and mountain vibe and was awesome for two weeks. Reaching Leh, however, I decided I was bored with the whole vegetation vacation thing and I wanted to get back to some serious adventure traveling. I couldnt do this if I were to remain part of the group, as they had all continued to do in Leh what they did in Kashmir, i.e., sit in the guesthouse and smoke pot all day long. In Kashmir this was justified, since there is nothing to do but sit on teh houseboat and watch the lake and smoke. Leh, however, is a city reeling with adventure sports such as trekking, rafting, bicycle riding, mountain climbing etc, and sitting in the guesthouse smoking pot is a serious waste of time.
Olik and i had taken a liking towards each other and it naturally occurred to us to continue travelling together. He is a 24 yr old ex-army combat soldier from the "nachal" department. A gregarious traveler, he started at about the same time as me in India and will travel until December. He may buy an Enfield in Manali, which is where we are travelling to next. There is no other way to leave Leh except by travelling through Manali, where Ive already been, and from where I will head to Spiti-Kinor with Olik in a few days.
Incidentally, Olik has experience/contacts in the bar/restaurant business in Israel and we've been spending some time day dreaming about the bar we will open together in Israel. We have a few ideas and may develop a business plan, which we will then shop around to his father's wealthy investor friends. But thats a whole other story. In the next few days we planned a trek that was to change the course of our lives forever, sort of. And thats a story I will share in my next post.
In Kashmir we lounged about and lived life like Kings. The group of Israelis I was with were of a sort that likes to sit around and smoke pot all day long. Most of them rarely left the houseboat, maybe only to buy more "munchies."
I however, while also indulging in a form of vacation only possible to me and my fellow post-army Israelis in Kashmir, made a trip nearly everyday to the main city center.
Srinagar is a dirty, ugly city with 95% Muslim population. Many women walk around in long black burkas while the men look depressingly normal. The streets are long and windy, lacking any kind of organization, and leading easily to a state of "where the fuck am i!!!!???".
I had to take care of a few moto issues in Srinagar, including a basic checkup, since I had crossed the first 3000km by this point, and also I was to embark on a two day journey to Leh which I had to make sure my bike was ready for. A very kind Indian who actually loooks like a native american, accompanied me to the city a few times and took me to a good mechanic. I had the chain and sprocket replaced, as well as the front brakes, and some other minor repairs. I never knew about the clutch oil, now I know. I'm learning a lot about motorcycles and maintenance.
I took Olik along with me to the city a few times to the Lal Chowk district, or the main market. Here I wandered about trying to change money with my new credit card after losing my original one, and I also bought a few gifts. I made sure to purchase a few "pashminas" or shawls made of the ultra smooth hair on a goats chin. The real pashminas are 100% goat chin wool, but the ones I bought were 30% goat chin hair and 70% wool. The real pashminas start at 6000 ruppees, while mine cost about 200 ruppees each, but theyre still badass and surprisingly warm.
After two weeks of the same routine I, and some others in the group, was eager to get moving. The price of living was higher in Kashmir due to the high consumption of junk food and other uneccessary and wasteful expendistures. Some folks wanted to stay a few more days, but the majority decided to leave. Seven of us organized a jeep to Leh, Ladakh, while I organized my bike. Asher also rode his bike and took along Yossi for the ride.
I left early in the morning about two weeks ago to Kargil, a small village on the main rode between Srinagar and Leh. Leh is about 500 km east of Srinagar. The ride was certainly one of the most beautiful of this trip. Layers of hilly dessert mountains and valleys followed by green plateaus full of wild sheep and horses. It was hard to leave Kashmir and the lake and the shikaras, but now I was riding amidst the most glamorous scenery I had scene yet.
I reached the jeep a few times and overtook them, and make it to Kargil before the jeep by two hours even though I left two hours after them and took a couple long breaks in the middle of the trip. In Kargil I met the group and we took a hotel in the middle of the long barren one street village that on my road map is market as a major city, but is in fact a dirty, depressing Muslim town with out any redeeming features. Olik and Anastasia rode three-up on my motorcycle with me and tried to find a restaurant without any success. The best we found was a butcher displaying a row of sheep and goat heads still on sale from the morning; the rest of the body had already been sold.
I used the internet here and wrote about what happened two weeks before that, just like im doing now. There was also a group of enfield riders in our hotel, and I had started seeing large groups of organized bike tours on the way to Ladakh.
I set out from Kargil the following morning and rode all the way to Lamuruyu, another small village 100 km West of Leh. I found a hotel near the Buddhist monastery here and decided to stay for the night, not in any hurry to get to Leh. I ate some sketchy chow mein and slept most of the time here. I checked out the monastery and said hey to a couple monks, as well as gave a spin to the buddhist wheel, which is definitely good luck.
I continued through more majestic territory the next day and witnessed the land turn from Kashmiri green to Ladakhy desert. The mountains grew taller and taller as the road ascended to 3500 meters from Srinagars 1500. When I reached Leh I was exhausted by the glaring sun and also by the altitude difference. I ate another round of aweful thali, and spent two hours finding a obscure guesthouse listed in Lonely Planet. I finally found the Ladakh guesthouse but it was full and I took a room in Babu Guesthouse nextdoor. No shower, no hot bucket, bathroom outside, nice Tibetan innkeeper, 100 ruppees. Perfect. I still hadnt found the crew from Kashmir but I decided a few days without them would do me good.
I took a nap and then wandered through Leh. The city at first, like Srinagar was confusing, with a "new Leh" and an "old leh". I was in the old Leh, but all the internet shops and restaurants and people were in New Leh. I bought a few things I needed, like toothpaste and shaving cream, and stumbled upon Olik and anastasia in the Main Bazaar, watching a pair of photographers from England doing work for a New York Times magazine article called "faces of India." I got the British photographer to take a couple shots of Olik and I, and perhaps we'll be included in the article, though they said that from the hundreds of snapshots they will have to choose only eight.
From there we went to eat and met a older man named Moshe of about 50. A cigarette smoking machine with rough grey stubble and a good looking wife, Moshe was a reminder to me that people at 50 can still be remarkably cool. We chatted like old friends, and Moshe had no problems shooting the shit with 22, 24, and 27 yr olds. He told us about all his travels in India and the US, about his two grown kids at home who were our age. we continued to bump into Moshe and his wife in Leh until they left for Kashmir.
Leh is the capital of the state of Ladakh. Ladakhys are comprised of regular Indian citizens who are Hindu, and Tibetan Ladakhys who have refugee status. They all speak Ladakhy predominantly but most understand Hindi, Tibetan and even Kashmiri, as well as some English.
Olik and Anastasia were sharing a room in a guesthouse which was where the rest of our group was also staying. The group spirit had started to disintegrate once we left Kashmir, and it became obvious to me that I was not going to continue traveling with them. In Kashmir we shared a houseboat and lived the life of glamorous hippie stoners, which went well with the lake and mountain vibe and was awesome for two weeks. Reaching Leh, however, I decided I was bored with the whole vegetation vacation thing and I wanted to get back to some serious adventure traveling. I couldnt do this if I were to remain part of the group, as they had all continued to do in Leh what they did in Kashmir, i.e., sit in the guesthouse and smoke pot all day long. In Kashmir this was justified, since there is nothing to do but sit on teh houseboat and watch the lake and smoke. Leh, however, is a city reeling with adventure sports such as trekking, rafting, bicycle riding, mountain climbing etc, and sitting in the guesthouse smoking pot is a serious waste of time.
Olik and i had taken a liking towards each other and it naturally occurred to us to continue travelling together. He is a 24 yr old ex-army combat soldier from the "nachal" department. A gregarious traveler, he started at about the same time as me in India and will travel until December. He may buy an Enfield in Manali, which is where we are travelling to next. There is no other way to leave Leh except by travelling through Manali, where Ive already been, and from where I will head to Spiti-Kinor with Olik in a few days.
Incidentally, Olik has experience/contacts in the bar/restaurant business in Israel and we've been spending some time day dreaming about the bar we will open together in Israel. We have a few ideas and may develop a business plan, which we will then shop around to his father's wealthy investor friends. But thats a whole other story. In the next few days we planned a trek that was to change the course of our lives forever, sort of. And thats a story I will share in my next post.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Kashmir
I have to finish writing about Kashmir but the internet is so damn slow and expensive that its just not working out.
7:30: Sunset. Hungry from sitting around all day. Waiting for dinner, reminiscing about the hard hard day.
8:30: Eat. Jamal brings out the dinner, usually a variation on rice, veggies and potatoes. And carrots, lots of neglected carrots that supposedly grow in Kashmir. So dinner was basically carrots and potatoes, and maybe a little Spinach thrown in for originality.
9:30: Murder. We played this game almost every day after dinner, the same way my grandmother used to play Rummy with her friends every Sunday at three. I inevitably lost everytime, having no talent for bluffing.
After the game, which lasted until around eleven, we did more of the insigficant things we did during the day, only with less enery. Like playing cards, listening to music. Sometimes a few friends from other houseboats stopped and by and participated in our fun.
During the day a lot of Shikara salesmen would stop by with their boats full of special Kashmiri handicrafts and pashmina shawls and climb onto our porch to try to sell us things. I was suckered into buying a few gifts by one of these salesmen who offered a few glimpses into his daily life. I asked him about his family. He said his wife is one of those who wears a complete "burka" when she goes out. That is, she is dressed from head to toe in black. She even wears the sunglasses under the burka so that strange men wont see her eyes. He seemed to find much pleasure in this situation and was obviously proud of the fact that his wife was so "loyal". It did not seem that his pleasure was derived from religious belief, since he quickly added that sometimes, when he finds distaste in his wife's presence, he sends her to her mother's house, and brings over his two "girlfriends." I joked that I wanted to see his house, and he offered to invite us to dinner, an invitation I wanted to accept, but could not find any one else in the houseboat who would join me.
For the record, tomorrow Im going on a Trek for four days, but when I get back ill finish the story of Kashmir and catch up on the details of Leh, Ladakh, which is where I am now.
7:30: Sunset. Hungry from sitting around all day. Waiting for dinner, reminiscing about the hard hard day.
8:30: Eat. Jamal brings out the dinner, usually a variation on rice, veggies and potatoes. And carrots, lots of neglected carrots that supposedly grow in Kashmir. So dinner was basically carrots and potatoes, and maybe a little Spinach thrown in for originality.
9:30: Murder. We played this game almost every day after dinner, the same way my grandmother used to play Rummy with her friends every Sunday at three. I inevitably lost everytime, having no talent for bluffing.
After the game, which lasted until around eleven, we did more of the insigficant things we did during the day, only with less enery. Like playing cards, listening to music. Sometimes a few friends from other houseboats stopped and by and participated in our fun.
During the day a lot of Shikara salesmen would stop by with their boats full of special Kashmiri handicrafts and pashmina shawls and climb onto our porch to try to sell us things. I was suckered into buying a few gifts by one of these salesmen who offered a few glimpses into his daily life. I asked him about his family. He said his wife is one of those who wears a complete "burka" when she goes out. That is, she is dressed from head to toe in black. She even wears the sunglasses under the burka so that strange men wont see her eyes. He seemed to find much pleasure in this situation and was obviously proud of the fact that his wife was so "loyal". It did not seem that his pleasure was derived from religious belief, since he quickly added that sometimes, when he finds distaste in his wife's presence, he sends her to her mother's house, and brings over his two "girlfriends." I joked that I wanted to see his house, and he offered to invite us to dinner, an invitation I wanted to accept, but could not find any one else in the houseboat who would join me.
For the record, tomorrow Im going on a Trek for four days, but when I get back ill finish the story of Kashmir and catch up on the details of Leh, Ladakh, which is where I am now.
Friday, July 20, 2007
Niggin Lake
We arrived at our new houseboat, Shere-kashmir, and immediately felt at home. We were amongst friends, on a beautiful houseboat with more of the same 19th c. furniture that we saw at the Mount View houseboat, with a large porch jutting forth onto the most gorgeous lake in the world…possibly. Behind the lake on the other side, and hence in our sight of view, were at least five mountain ranges, one behind the other, each range higher in elevation than the one before it, creating a multi layered effect particularly stunning in the morning.
Asher and I took the last remaining room out of four in the houseboat. We were nine all together, with three people sharing one of the rooms. The cost was relatively high, at 350 rupees per head, but included breakfast and dinner. The room was the best I’ve had so far, quite comfortable beds with layered sheets and blankets, not unlike an actual motel room like that found in a Motel 6. Large windows looked onto the garden, and a private bathroom with hot water in the evenings was off to the right.
The large dining room housed the refrigerator, which we kept fully stocked with all kinds of bad junk: coke, sprite, cookies and lots of chocolate. The dining room connected with the living room, which connected with the porch, so that the houseboat itself is similar in style to a railroad apartment in Brooklyn. The houseboat itself sat perpendicular to the lake, so that the back half lies on land and the front half lies on water (though I'm not sure how one decides which is the front or the back). The half with the porch was in the water, and from the porch wooden steps led down into the water creating a sort of dock for shikaras.
I have to say quite frankly that Kashmir was a vacation from a vacation. That is, in Srinagar I learnt the true meaning of relaxation. I was in Kashmir for twelve days, and in that time I managed to do very little of what is called “traveling”, and a lot of what is called “vacationing”. By the end of our stay in Kashmir I had developed a daily routine that went something like this:
10:00AM: Wake up to the sounds of birds chirping. I was usually second to wake up, even though I was always amongst the last to go to bed. Nimrod, a 26 year-old former IDF fighter and ex-boyfriend to Anastasia (We all thought they were together until we found out they broke up right before they arrived in Kashmir), was first to wake up and was normally out rowing in our small rowboat by eight o’clock sharp.
10:30AM: Head to the porch, the weather was best in the morning. The sun at this time was perfectly situated so as to provide that kind of direct, all encompassing warmth that so seamlessly brings the body out of the coldness of sleep and prepares it for the Action of day. The sky at this time was cloudless, a perfect blue, the mountain ranges in the distance hallowed by the rising sun. Upholstered benches were built into the porch and I laid back on them with a book and read until the next person woke up.
11:00AM: The third person that usually woke was Yossi. 22, fresh out of the army, he’s one of the stable components of the group, a sort of negotiator when things turn sour between members of our group. He usually also cared for the communal boof, (we bought Kashmiri Hash as a group) and so when he came out onto the porch he was never without a piece of boof and a mixing bowl. While I read he would roll a joint, and we would smoke it. Almost as if by instinct, the rest of the crew slowly appeared around this time, and everyone was pretty much stoned before the morning chai.
11:30AM: Everyone except Olik and Anastasia up. All of a sudden everyone is up, smoking, laughing, the houseboat full of energy. The book is down and we’re playing a game of cards: maybe shithead or rummy. Adi and Zohar, Idan and Asher are up. Jamal, our innkeeper had already cleaned the entire living room by the time I woke, and was in the kitchen out back preparing our breakfast.
12:00AM: Talking, deliberating, smoking, lounging. Nimrod is back and maybe we’re taking the boat out to the middle of the lake for a morning dip. The water near the houseboats is dirty and full of weeds, but in the middle of the lake pristine waters at reasonable temperatures coaxed us out of the houseboat sometimes three times a day. Olik and Anastasia waking up.
12:30AM: “Breakfast Ready” Jamal calls and we all eagerly sit down to eat, having waited until lunchtime to eat breakfast. We ate the same exact breakfast every day: omelets, toast, jam, butter, and what seemed like the leftover salad from last night’s dinner. I have to be critical here about the Indian egg-preparation technique: too much oil!!! The eggs themselves are already mutated; the yolk of Indian eggs is not yellow but off-white. That’s bearable though, but is there any reason to fry an egg the same way one fries Schnitzel? The Indian recipe for omelet is something like two eggs, two cups oil. This obsession with oil carries over into a lot of other Indian food as well, especially in Chinese food like noodles, which is common in Indian restaurants.
1:00AM: Nauseous from breakfast, head to the living room for an after-breakfast bong hit. At this point I would normally take the bike for a ride in the city. Sometimes Olik joined me for the trip. Niggin Lake where we were is actually about six kilometers from Dal Gate, which is a gate that stands in main market area of the city and marks the entrance to Dal Lake. I had a lot of things to take care of in Srinagar: Motorcycle maintenance, gift shopping, sunglass repairing, money exchanging (I had lost my visa in Dharamshala and had to activate my spare card). I drove to the city almost everyday and got lost on the way back to the houseboat almost every time. Srinagar is a very complicated, unorganized, chaotic city full of winding side streets, alleys, none of which are properly named or properly paved.
4:00PM: exhausted, burnt out by the intense Kashmiri afternoon sun, blackened by Kashmiri dust, I returned to the houseboat. By the last few days of Kashmir I knew the city quite well and was actually considering a stint as a Kashmiri rickshaw driver.
5:00PM: More smoking, playing cards, listening to music, lounging, laughing, talking. What else does one need? We put a fund together with which we bought food for the group. I considered this an absolute waste of money but being part of the group didn’t object. Daily we bought a massive amount of junk food either from the local “food stall” shikara—an actual boat loaded with everything you’d find in the stores but for inflated prices— or from a shop on land nearby.
6:00PM: A ride out with Olik in the rowboat to another houseboat nearby with three Israeli girls, a change of atmosphere.
7:30PM: Sunset.
To be continued…
Asher and I took the last remaining room out of four in the houseboat. We were nine all together, with three people sharing one of the rooms. The cost was relatively high, at 350 rupees per head, but included breakfast and dinner. The room was the best I’ve had so far, quite comfortable beds with layered sheets and blankets, not unlike an actual motel room like that found in a Motel 6. Large windows looked onto the garden, and a private bathroom with hot water in the evenings was off to the right.
The large dining room housed the refrigerator, which we kept fully stocked with all kinds of bad junk: coke, sprite, cookies and lots of chocolate. The dining room connected with the living room, which connected with the porch, so that the houseboat itself is similar in style to a railroad apartment in Brooklyn. The houseboat itself sat perpendicular to the lake, so that the back half lies on land and the front half lies on water (though I'm not sure how one decides which is the front or the back). The half with the porch was in the water, and from the porch wooden steps led down into the water creating a sort of dock for shikaras.
I have to say quite frankly that Kashmir was a vacation from a vacation. That is, in Srinagar I learnt the true meaning of relaxation. I was in Kashmir for twelve days, and in that time I managed to do very little of what is called “traveling”, and a lot of what is called “vacationing”. By the end of our stay in Kashmir I had developed a daily routine that went something like this:
10:00AM: Wake up to the sounds of birds chirping. I was usually second to wake up, even though I was always amongst the last to go to bed. Nimrod, a 26 year-old former IDF fighter and ex-boyfriend to Anastasia (We all thought they were together until we found out they broke up right before they arrived in Kashmir), was first to wake up and was normally out rowing in our small rowboat by eight o’clock sharp.
10:30AM: Head to the porch, the weather was best in the morning. The sun at this time was perfectly situated so as to provide that kind of direct, all encompassing warmth that so seamlessly brings the body out of the coldness of sleep and prepares it for the Action of day. The sky at this time was cloudless, a perfect blue, the mountain ranges in the distance hallowed by the rising sun. Upholstered benches were built into the porch and I laid back on them with a book and read until the next person woke up.
11:00AM: The third person that usually woke was Yossi. 22, fresh out of the army, he’s one of the stable components of the group, a sort of negotiator when things turn sour between members of our group. He usually also cared for the communal boof, (we bought Kashmiri Hash as a group) and so when he came out onto the porch he was never without a piece of boof and a mixing bowl. While I read he would roll a joint, and we would smoke it. Almost as if by instinct, the rest of the crew slowly appeared around this time, and everyone was pretty much stoned before the morning chai.
11:30AM: Everyone except Olik and Anastasia up. All of a sudden everyone is up, smoking, laughing, the houseboat full of energy. The book is down and we’re playing a game of cards: maybe shithead or rummy. Adi and Zohar, Idan and Asher are up. Jamal, our innkeeper had already cleaned the entire living room by the time I woke, and was in the kitchen out back preparing our breakfast.
12:00AM: Talking, deliberating, smoking, lounging. Nimrod is back and maybe we’re taking the boat out to the middle of the lake for a morning dip. The water near the houseboats is dirty and full of weeds, but in the middle of the lake pristine waters at reasonable temperatures coaxed us out of the houseboat sometimes three times a day. Olik and Anastasia waking up.
12:30AM: “Breakfast Ready” Jamal calls and we all eagerly sit down to eat, having waited until lunchtime to eat breakfast. We ate the same exact breakfast every day: omelets, toast, jam, butter, and what seemed like the leftover salad from last night’s dinner. I have to be critical here about the Indian egg-preparation technique: too much oil!!! The eggs themselves are already mutated; the yolk of Indian eggs is not yellow but off-white. That’s bearable though, but is there any reason to fry an egg the same way one fries Schnitzel? The Indian recipe for omelet is something like two eggs, two cups oil. This obsession with oil carries over into a lot of other Indian food as well, especially in Chinese food like noodles, which is common in Indian restaurants.
1:00AM: Nauseous from breakfast, head to the living room for an after-breakfast bong hit. At this point I would normally take the bike for a ride in the city. Sometimes Olik joined me for the trip. Niggin Lake where we were is actually about six kilometers from Dal Gate, which is a gate that stands in main market area of the city and marks the entrance to Dal Lake. I had a lot of things to take care of in Srinagar: Motorcycle maintenance, gift shopping, sunglass repairing, money exchanging (I had lost my visa in Dharamshala and had to activate my spare card). I drove to the city almost everyday and got lost on the way back to the houseboat almost every time. Srinagar is a very complicated, unorganized, chaotic city full of winding side streets, alleys, none of which are properly named or properly paved.
4:00PM: exhausted, burnt out by the intense Kashmiri afternoon sun, blackened by Kashmiri dust, I returned to the houseboat. By the last few days of Kashmir I knew the city quite well and was actually considering a stint as a Kashmiri rickshaw driver.
5:00PM: More smoking, playing cards, listening to music, lounging, laughing, talking. What else does one need? We put a fund together with which we bought food for the group. I considered this an absolute waste of money but being part of the group didn’t object. Daily we bought a massive amount of junk food either from the local “food stall” shikara—an actual boat loaded with everything you’d find in the stores but for inflated prices— or from a shop on land nearby.
6:00PM: A ride out with Olik in the rowboat to another houseboat nearby with three Israeli girls, a change of atmosphere.
7:30PM: Sunset.
To be continued…
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Kashmir
We arrived at the Mount View guesthouse in the evening. The boys who led us there told us we might find our Israeli friends, however all we found was an empty overpriced guesthouse and nice caretaker called Maza whose room in the back we ended up staying in because the guesthouse itself was out of our budget. The ride to Srinagar left us exhausted yet terribly hungry, so first thing we set out to do was eat. Maza offered to make us "rice and veggies…very very good" but we kindly declined, having decided that we deserve better after the long journey. After two days of stomach-ache-inducing dhaba food (dhabas are the smelly, fly-ridden and usually decrepit tiny café/restaurants that serve one or more of the following: chai (tea with milk), parantha (flat circular potato stuffed dough fried on a skillet), samosa (like a mini pocket stuffed with potatoes, onions and peas and deep deep fried for extra crunch), thali (a combo plate consisting of dal (lentils), aloo gobi (potatoes and cabbage), some other kind of pea dish, rice and chapatti) and maybe some gnarly sweets most of which are basically some form of packed brown sugar) we decided that we wanted something a little less harsh on the stomach and a little kinder on the tongue.
Unfortunately Srinagar is one of those cities where everything-and I mean everything- closes at ten. Since by this time it was already 10:30 at night, we had absolutely no options. Being resolutely opposed to the idea of eating Maza's "rice and veggies" we wandered the streets looking for food. All we found was a hole-in-the-wall kiosk with cookies and chips and a sour looking employee who probably resented the fact that we came in as he was about to close. Nevertheless we loaded up on "Hide and Seek" chocolate cookies and Lays Chips. In India Lays are the most popular chips, and a few native flavors are Masala Munch (Masala is some kind of Indian ingredient put in Indian food and drinks) and Curry Power (I just made that one up because I forgot the name of the other Indian-specific Lays flavor.
We slept soundly that night despite sleeping on old worn blankets on the floor. Maza woke us with his coming and goings, and when I stepped outside he was right there to greet me. He offered me tea, which I accepted, and then he told me that he'd been working in the Mount View houseboat for 14 years, having been recruited from Delhi. Like most innkeepers, he is attached to the guesthouse 24/7, and draws a meager wage for small expenditures, since most of his pay is in room and board. The caretaker does everything that needs to be done, is there at night when you go to sleep and there in the morning when you wake. I asked him if he was a Muslim to which he responded that he has no religious faith. I ended up taking pity on this man who, at age forty, had no friends nor family, and seemingly few options. He struck me as a child in a grown man's body, but in conversation I could see deep sadness and despair in his eyes. He told me the next day that he wanted to leave Kashmir, that he was sick of the owners of the houseboat who apparently don't treat him too well. Every person desires to be in control of his or her own destiny, and I got the feeling that Maza wanted to be something bigger, do something more important.
After tea Asher woke and Maza said we should go inside the guesthouse. We were amazed by the interior, which stood in stark contrast to the bare room we had slept in. 19th century furniture with red velvet upholstery, Persian carpets, and most appealing the big porch that looked out over the part of Dal Lake called Niggin Lake. We stayed in the houseboat all afternoon, reading, talking, smoking. I fell asleep on one of the couches inside at around three and was woken abruptly by one of the owners entering the houseboat. Asher was reclining generously on one of the loveseats, and this tall Indian-looking man approached him and said: "what do you think you're doing? Sitting like this in this chair, like its your home? Do you have no respect? You're not paying for the houseboat, you're paying for the little shithole in the back." Asher, lazy eyed and indifferent said nothing, which irritated the tall man even more. He became irate, told Asher to stand up, which he did, and ordered him to leave the houseboat. The whole time I was laying on the couch I wondered why all this venom was directed towards Asher only and not to me. It might very well have been a racially motivated incident.
He went on to the balcony and found Asher's "Boof" or what is known in English as his "Stash", and immediately said he was calling the police. He dialed a number and said, in English: "hi, id like to speak with the police" which let me know immediately that he was bluffing, since if he was really calling the police he would speak in Kashmiri and not in English. And he wont say something so lame as "id like to speak with the police" which is not what a person says when he calls the police. He was in fact bluffing and gave Asher back his stash after I calmed everybody down and apologized profusely, not wanting to have to find another accommodation this late in the day. The tall man I learned afterwards was a native Kashmiri who lived in Germany with his wife and kids, and was visiting Kashmir to check up on his houseboat business.
Maza didn't want us to leave and was angry with the owner for having caused us to go. But we wanted to leave anyways and find our friends from Dharamshala who were supposed to be in Srinagar too. We packed our things and locked them in the room, and then hired a Shikara (water taxi) to take us on a tour around Niggin Lake, which we knew was where our group was. The Shikara is kind of like the Gondola in Venice, except the rower doesn't stand and an awning provides shade. Also the oar is shaped like a heart, which is a memorable Kashmiri trademark. After an hours ride around the gorgeous lake surrounded by cute houseboats and covered by a cloudless blue sky, we saw in the distance, standing on the porch of a houseboat, what looked like a large guy with a beard and tussled hair: Zohar! We found our friends in the Shere-Kashmir houseboat, finally, and told our Shikara driver to stop.
Everyone was there: Zohar, Adi, Idan, Yossi, Anastasia, Nimrod and Olik. They welcomed us graciously and happily. Their houseboat was not quite as impeccably furnished as our houseboat but was much larger. Theirs was on the other side of Niggin Lake, the better side with the view of the mountain ranges in the distance. We met Jamal, the innkeeper, and he came with Asher and I, as well as Olik, on the Shikara back to the Mount View guesthouse. Jamal came to show us how to ride around the lake to get to the Shere Kashmir houseboat and Olik came for the ride. We said farewell to Maza who was sad to see us go and rode our Enfields to the new houseboat. We finally arrived after what seemed like a long delay. The next twelve days were spent in that houseboat.
Unfortunately Srinagar is one of those cities where everything-and I mean everything- closes at ten. Since by this time it was already 10:30 at night, we had absolutely no options. Being resolutely opposed to the idea of eating Maza's "rice and veggies" we wandered the streets looking for food. All we found was a hole-in-the-wall kiosk with cookies and chips and a sour looking employee who probably resented the fact that we came in as he was about to close. Nevertheless we loaded up on "Hide and Seek" chocolate cookies and Lays Chips. In India Lays are the most popular chips, and a few native flavors are Masala Munch (Masala is some kind of Indian ingredient put in Indian food and drinks) and Curry Power (I just made that one up because I forgot the name of the other Indian-specific Lays flavor.
We slept soundly that night despite sleeping on old worn blankets on the floor. Maza woke us with his coming and goings, and when I stepped outside he was right there to greet me. He offered me tea, which I accepted, and then he told me that he'd been working in the Mount View houseboat for 14 years, having been recruited from Delhi. Like most innkeepers, he is attached to the guesthouse 24/7, and draws a meager wage for small expenditures, since most of his pay is in room and board. The caretaker does everything that needs to be done, is there at night when you go to sleep and there in the morning when you wake. I asked him if he was a Muslim to which he responded that he has no religious faith. I ended up taking pity on this man who, at age forty, had no friends nor family, and seemingly few options. He struck me as a child in a grown man's body, but in conversation I could see deep sadness and despair in his eyes. He told me the next day that he wanted to leave Kashmir, that he was sick of the owners of the houseboat who apparently don't treat him too well. Every person desires to be in control of his or her own destiny, and I got the feeling that Maza wanted to be something bigger, do something more important.
After tea Asher woke and Maza said we should go inside the guesthouse. We were amazed by the interior, which stood in stark contrast to the bare room we had slept in. 19th century furniture with red velvet upholstery, Persian carpets, and most appealing the big porch that looked out over the part of Dal Lake called Niggin Lake. We stayed in the houseboat all afternoon, reading, talking, smoking. I fell asleep on one of the couches inside at around three and was woken abruptly by one of the owners entering the houseboat. Asher was reclining generously on one of the loveseats, and this tall Indian-looking man approached him and said: "what do you think you're doing? Sitting like this in this chair, like its your home? Do you have no respect? You're not paying for the houseboat, you're paying for the little shithole in the back." Asher, lazy eyed and indifferent said nothing, which irritated the tall man even more. He became irate, told Asher to stand up, which he did, and ordered him to leave the houseboat. The whole time I was laying on the couch I wondered why all this venom was directed towards Asher only and not to me. It might very well have been a racially motivated incident.
He went on to the balcony and found Asher's "Boof" or what is known in English as his "Stash", and immediately said he was calling the police. He dialed a number and said, in English: "hi, id like to speak with the police" which let me know immediately that he was bluffing, since if he was really calling the police he would speak in Kashmiri and not in English. And he wont say something so lame as "id like to speak with the police" which is not what a person says when he calls the police. He was in fact bluffing and gave Asher back his stash after I calmed everybody down and apologized profusely, not wanting to have to find another accommodation this late in the day. The tall man I learned afterwards was a native Kashmiri who lived in Germany with his wife and kids, and was visiting Kashmir to check up on his houseboat business.
Maza didn't want us to leave and was angry with the owner for having caused us to go. But we wanted to leave anyways and find our friends from Dharamshala who were supposed to be in Srinagar too. We packed our things and locked them in the room, and then hired a Shikara (water taxi) to take us on a tour around Niggin Lake, which we knew was where our group was. The Shikara is kind of like the Gondola in Venice, except the rower doesn't stand and an awning provides shade. Also the oar is shaped like a heart, which is a memorable Kashmiri trademark. After an hours ride around the gorgeous lake surrounded by cute houseboats and covered by a cloudless blue sky, we saw in the distance, standing on the porch of a houseboat, what looked like a large guy with a beard and tussled hair: Zohar! We found our friends in the Shere-Kashmir houseboat, finally, and told our Shikara driver to stop.
Everyone was there: Zohar, Adi, Idan, Yossi, Anastasia, Nimrod and Olik. They welcomed us graciously and happily. Their houseboat was not quite as impeccably furnished as our houseboat but was much larger. Theirs was on the other side of Niggin Lake, the better side with the view of the mountain ranges in the distance. We met Jamal, the innkeeper, and he came with Asher and I, as well as Olik, on the Shikara back to the Mount View guesthouse. Jamal came to show us how to ride around the lake to get to the Shere Kashmir houseboat and Olik came for the ride. We said farewell to Maza who was sad to see us go and rode our Enfields to the new houseboat. We finally arrived after what seemed like a long delay. The next twelve days were spent in that houseboat.
Monday, July 16, 2007
Kashmir
Ive been in India for a little over two months now and im starting to feel like this trip really belongs to me! I had this discussion with my friend Oleek last night after we arrived in Kargil, me on my motorbike and him with the rest of the crew in a jeep. He said he didnt feel like he "owned" his trip, or was in control of it, yet. Rather he feels like the trip belongs the group. I told him to get a motorcycle and get on with it damnit!
So where was I? After leaving Dharamshala, a wet and cloudy city with lots of heart as well as lots of Buddhists, Asher and I made the journey to Jammu, our stopping point on the way to Srinagar. Jammu is the first stop inside the state known as Jammu and Kashmir, the state which bore most of the damage ensuing from the turbulent but now temporarily peaceful relationship between India and Pakistan. Kargil actually saw heavy fire in 1999, and was in a state of war with Drass, a city about 100 kilometers East thru which I passed on the way to Kargil. As in Srinagar it's apparent that the people here are despondent and frustrated about the in-your-face military presence. There are barriers every half mile that cause unbearable traffic jams. Fortunately I pass thru these in relative ease with my enfield.
The way to Jammu was not the jaw-dropping scenic experience of the roads leading Rishikish and Shimla. The roads were well paved and straight, but since we left at noon we struggled through heavy traffic, by which I mean lines of big colorful trucks emitting the most noxious diesel fumes. The smoke is black and thick and the only benefit is that when its cold you can coast up the side of the truck and bath in the warmth of the toxic cloud.
We did stop and drink Chai near Jammu where a group of teens were standing around doing the usual: starring at us. One of them was bold enough to approach me and ask "how can I go to america?" to which I responded: "study computers, or math, or physics." The boy, about 15, told me he studies hard in school and is hoping to go live in America one day. I gave him my email for correspondence and advice, and he told me he'd write me, once he had the chance to use the internet, which he'd never done.
We arrived in Jammu in the evening and darkness descended on the unfriendly city before we had a chance to find a guesthouse. Eventually, exhausted, we located a couple of dingy hotels on a main road costing about 150 ruppees per night (Asher insisted on the cheapest accomodation) with a shared bathroom and no windows. The clerk wanted an additional 50 to watch the bikes but we told him we'd take our chances and went to sleep.
We left early in the morning, hoping to escape the city limits before the onset of heat and traffic. On the way to Srinagar the military presene increased dramatically. Long lines of military trucks carring Indian soldiers made their way to Srinagar along straight roads offering non-dramatic views. I lost Asher a few times on teh way but found him eventually. Close to Srinagar we suddently saw to our right a wide open valley covered with the greenest grass. We stopped for a break on the side of the road and Asher started rolling a joint. After a couple minutes we noticed a soldier with an M-16 (or something like that) approaching us. Asher hid the joint under his leg and offered the soldier a cigarette. He looked at us blankly, asked from where we were from (to which I usually say Yugoslavia which is funny because Yugoslavia doesnt exist anymore), accepted the cigarette and walked off.
The moment we entered Srinagar, a large bleak Muslim city, we were accosted by men on motorbikes imploring us to just "come look, come look" at their beautiful guesthouses. Seasoned by experience and also the info in the Lonely Planet guidebook, which warns of slimy houseboat conartists, we decided to do best to find our friends who had arrived a day earlier from Dharamshala. We didnt find them for two days because Asher lost the phone number and the name of the place. Instead we stayed for a couple nights in the staff room of an expensive houseboat with a man named Maza and dog named Akbar.
So where was I? After leaving Dharamshala, a wet and cloudy city with lots of heart as well as lots of Buddhists, Asher and I made the journey to Jammu, our stopping point on the way to Srinagar. Jammu is the first stop inside the state known as Jammu and Kashmir, the state which bore most of the damage ensuing from the turbulent but now temporarily peaceful relationship between India and Pakistan. Kargil actually saw heavy fire in 1999, and was in a state of war with Drass, a city about 100 kilometers East thru which I passed on the way to Kargil. As in Srinagar it's apparent that the people here are despondent and frustrated about the in-your-face military presence. There are barriers every half mile that cause unbearable traffic jams. Fortunately I pass thru these in relative ease with my enfield.
The way to Jammu was not the jaw-dropping scenic experience of the roads leading Rishikish and Shimla. The roads were well paved and straight, but since we left at noon we struggled through heavy traffic, by which I mean lines of big colorful trucks emitting the most noxious diesel fumes. The smoke is black and thick and the only benefit is that when its cold you can coast up the side of the truck and bath in the warmth of the toxic cloud.
We did stop and drink Chai near Jammu where a group of teens were standing around doing the usual: starring at us. One of them was bold enough to approach me and ask "how can I go to america?" to which I responded: "study computers, or math, or physics." The boy, about 15, told me he studies hard in school and is hoping to go live in America one day. I gave him my email for correspondence and advice, and he told me he'd write me, once he had the chance to use the internet, which he'd never done.
We arrived in Jammu in the evening and darkness descended on the unfriendly city before we had a chance to find a guesthouse. Eventually, exhausted, we located a couple of dingy hotels on a main road costing about 150 ruppees per night (Asher insisted on the cheapest accomodation) with a shared bathroom and no windows. The clerk wanted an additional 50 to watch the bikes but we told him we'd take our chances and went to sleep.
We left early in the morning, hoping to escape the city limits before the onset of heat and traffic. On the way to Srinagar the military presene increased dramatically. Long lines of military trucks carring Indian soldiers made their way to Srinagar along straight roads offering non-dramatic views. I lost Asher a few times on teh way but found him eventually. Close to Srinagar we suddently saw to our right a wide open valley covered with the greenest grass. We stopped for a break on the side of the road and Asher started rolling a joint. After a couple minutes we noticed a soldier with an M-16 (or something like that) approaching us. Asher hid the joint under his leg and offered the soldier a cigarette. He looked at us blankly, asked from where we were from (to which I usually say Yugoslavia which is funny because Yugoslavia doesnt exist anymore), accepted the cigarette and walked off.
The moment we entered Srinagar, a large bleak Muslim city, we were accosted by men on motorbikes imploring us to just "come look, come look" at their beautiful guesthouses. Seasoned by experience and also the info in the Lonely Planet guidebook, which warns of slimy houseboat conartists, we decided to do best to find our friends who had arrived a day earlier from Dharamshala. We didnt find them for two days because Asher lost the phone number and the name of the place. Instead we stayed for a couple nights in the staff room of an expensive houseboat with a man named Maza and dog named Akbar.
Friday, July 13, 2007
srinagar
The internet man let me in early despite the fact that afternoon prayers arent over yet and everything else in this hot and dirty city is closed. And with that I just realized why so many shops are always only half-open, or have there security gates only partly lifted--because the shopkeepers are constantly opening and closing their shops to go pray.
I wont write a lot now because its muggy and gross in this place, and im itching to get back to the houseboat which is on the water and full of fresh kashmiri air. We did leave Daramkot though safe and sound and I remember getting money from an ATM in Daramshala on the way out, and I think thats where I forgot my Debit Card!
Im losing everything, my phone too! Today I created order out of chaos in the houseboat, looking for my card and phone, but nothing! Nothing! And im spending too much money damnit but im loving life!!!
I wont write a lot now because its muggy and gross in this place, and im itching to get back to the houseboat which is on the water and full of fresh kashmiri air. We did leave Daramkot though safe and sound and I remember getting money from an ATM in Daramshala on the way out, and I think thats where I forgot my Debit Card!
Im losing everything, my phone too! Today I created order out of chaos in the houseboat, looking for my card and phone, but nothing! Nothing! And im spending too much money damnit but im loving life!!!
Friday, July 6, 2007
Daramkot
Im still in Kashmir, and im totally "Sachi" which means "not stoned." Amongst israelis here in India being "sachi" is an oddity, plainly absurd, something that comes about as a tragic accident that must be remedied immediately by getting back to a guest house full of bongs and chillums and other smoking paraphernalia.
So back in Daramkot, like I said, we had fun. A local restaurant called "the Israeli" and had menus only in Hebrew, showed movies every night. I saw Lord of the Rings 3 there, and fell asleep during the movie. Im having deja vue like I already wrote about this in my last post: NOOOOOO!!!
The girl next door to us, Raz, a 28 yr registered nurse in a Tel Aviv suburb with deep reservations about returning to israel in less then two weeks, went with me to free dance, basically an event in a room with a view and a DJ and people dancing like wild orangutans during the day. The sweaty room began to vibrate with the big bass beats and I grooved hard. I think I hyperventilated and passed out because i woke up in a local hospital the next day without anything on but a buddhist necklace engraved by a well known Tibetan guru.
We met a big group of Israelis a floated the idea of coming to Kashmir. Our departure was to be on Monday. The Israelis would leave on Sunday night by bus and meet us in Kashmir.
I met Michal on teh street and joined her for Chai at a cafe. I ate three Nutella croissants. She left Daramshala on Saturday and India on Monday. The cafe I sat at with Michal is called Trek Cafe and I went there often despite the disappointing food. The "G" there preferred not to be called "G" but rather "rasta" due to his dreadlocks ("rastot") and bob marley shirts. I spent my time there playing poker with other "sachi" people who find it hard reaping pleasure from doing absolutely nothing but smoking jaras. The israelis in D didnt smoke too much, especially compared to Kasol and Manali. I also read a couple of books in D: Miss Wyoming by Doug Coupland and Beyond Belief by VS Naipaul, both excellent.
Storekeepers in D are much less aggressive with their sales. I think this is the Tibetan influence. They dont run out at you and hassle you like in the other tourist villages. Kashmir has the most aggressive sales tactics, ill get to this later.
In D we had a full moon day and the moon was all yellow and quite big and looked like the sun. Many people took pics. I wanted to but my battery is dead and nonchargeable. After this I went down to The Jewish House in Bagsu only because I was going there to meet a girlfriend of Michal who had gone to Tibet and was going to give me some info and trip planning. I got there after an hour long trek and was overwhelmed by the amount of jews but completely underwhelmed by the food: chicken soup with carrots and rice? The rabbi blabbered something about peace in the new year and how happy he was to be in India and then, after a few questions to the girl about Tibet, I left.
On Monday morning we left Dharamshala.
So back in Daramkot, like I said, we had fun. A local restaurant called "the Israeli" and had menus only in Hebrew, showed movies every night. I saw Lord of the Rings 3 there, and fell asleep during the movie. Im having deja vue like I already wrote about this in my last post: NOOOOOO!!!
The girl next door to us, Raz, a 28 yr registered nurse in a Tel Aviv suburb with deep reservations about returning to israel in less then two weeks, went with me to free dance, basically an event in a room with a view and a DJ and people dancing like wild orangutans during the day. The sweaty room began to vibrate with the big bass beats and I grooved hard. I think I hyperventilated and passed out because i woke up in a local hospital the next day without anything on but a buddhist necklace engraved by a well known Tibetan guru.
We met a big group of Israelis a floated the idea of coming to Kashmir. Our departure was to be on Monday. The Israelis would leave on Sunday night by bus and meet us in Kashmir.
I met Michal on teh street and joined her for Chai at a cafe. I ate three Nutella croissants. She left Daramshala on Saturday and India on Monday. The cafe I sat at with Michal is called Trek Cafe and I went there often despite the disappointing food. The "G" there preferred not to be called "G" but rather "rasta" due to his dreadlocks ("rastot") and bob marley shirts. I spent my time there playing poker with other "sachi" people who find it hard reaping pleasure from doing absolutely nothing but smoking jaras. The israelis in D didnt smoke too much, especially compared to Kasol and Manali. I also read a couple of books in D: Miss Wyoming by Doug Coupland and Beyond Belief by VS Naipaul, both excellent.
Storekeepers in D are much less aggressive with their sales. I think this is the Tibetan influence. They dont run out at you and hassle you like in the other tourist villages. Kashmir has the most aggressive sales tactics, ill get to this later.
In D we had a full moon day and the moon was all yellow and quite big and looked like the sun. Many people took pics. I wanted to but my battery is dead and nonchargeable. After this I went down to The Jewish House in Bagsu only because I was going there to meet a girlfriend of Michal who had gone to Tibet and was going to give me some info and trip planning. I got there after an hour long trek and was overwhelmed by the amount of jews but completely underwhelmed by the food: chicken soup with carrots and rice? The rabbi blabbered something about peace in the new year and how happy he was to be in India and then, after a few questions to the girl about Tibet, I left.
On Monday morning we left Dharamshala.
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
Kashmir!!!
Ok, so I made it to Kashmir and im still safe and alive. I was lead to believe that the moment i got here and settled into my houseboat I would be promptly whisked away by a trio of angry masked jihadists. Nothing like that has happened...yet.
We had to leave Daramkot because after five straight days of rain we just couldnt take it anymore!! But on the day after Kangra, which was maybe day three in Daramkot, we took it easy. What can I say? Our days were filled with lounging and enjoying life. We met a gigantic group of Israelis who are also here in Kashmir but are yet to be located. They arrived by jeep, not hard-core like us, by motorbike.
We were in Daramkot nine days, and on a few of those days we road out to Dharamshala, mainly to try to fix our cameras. Asher's has a broken screen and mine has a broken battery. And theres just so many things to take pictures of! NO luck getting the cameras fixed. Even here in Kashmir they say "only in Delhi." So im thinking of buying a cheap indian digital for about a hundred bucks. On one of those days we rode out to Dharamshala, is started raining on the way back, and we got SOOOOAAAAAAAKKKKEED. I mean it started to freaking storm like big huge indian drops out of a very angry sky. Shiva was angry, and so was the God of Rain, apparently. Anyway we got thrashed by water, and my motorcyle found a propitious time to fail on me. But only for five minutes after which is started up again. There was this crazy girl behind us on a bike with her boyfriend cussing us out, but in a nice way. Eventually we made it back to Mcleod and ate proudly in a five star indian restaurant on the fourth floor of some hip hotel.
I have about five minutes left in this high class posh internet place in the heart of Kashmir. I can't believe im in Kashmir. The city itself, Srinagar, which is the capital of Kashmir is a surprisingly bustling city, with all the noise and chaos of delhi, but smaller. Kind of like how San Franciso is to New York, but not really. There are fancy shops here all over with expensive clothing, jewelry, and lots of shawls. Dal Lake is gorgeous, especially in the morning, when everything is quiet and the sun is rising.
Anyways my time is up. Ciao.
We had to leave Daramkot because after five straight days of rain we just couldnt take it anymore!! But on the day after Kangra, which was maybe day three in Daramkot, we took it easy. What can I say? Our days were filled with lounging and enjoying life. We met a gigantic group of Israelis who are also here in Kashmir but are yet to be located. They arrived by jeep, not hard-core like us, by motorbike.
We were in Daramkot nine days, and on a few of those days we road out to Dharamshala, mainly to try to fix our cameras. Asher's has a broken screen and mine has a broken battery. And theres just so many things to take pictures of! NO luck getting the cameras fixed. Even here in Kashmir they say "only in Delhi." So im thinking of buying a cheap indian digital for about a hundred bucks. On one of those days we rode out to Dharamshala, is started raining on the way back, and we got SOOOOAAAAAAAKKKKEED. I mean it started to freaking storm like big huge indian drops out of a very angry sky. Shiva was angry, and so was the God of Rain, apparently. Anyway we got thrashed by water, and my motorcyle found a propitious time to fail on me. But only for five minutes after which is started up again. There was this crazy girl behind us on a bike with her boyfriend cussing us out, but in a nice way. Eventually we made it back to Mcleod and ate proudly in a five star indian restaurant on the fourth floor of some hip hotel.
I have about five minutes left in this high class posh internet place in the heart of Kashmir. I can't believe im in Kashmir. The city itself, Srinagar, which is the capital of Kashmir is a surprisingly bustling city, with all the noise and chaos of delhi, but smaller. Kind of like how San Franciso is to New York, but not really. There are fancy shops here all over with expensive clothing, jewelry, and lots of shawls. Dal Lake is gorgeous, especially in the morning, when everything is quiet and the sun is rising.
Anyways my time is up. Ciao.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)