LADAKH
The journey to Ladakh quickly dispels any doubts as to its remoteness. Our well-seasoned mini-bus rattles me and my 9 fellow passengers for 20 hours northwards, away from the monsoon and up towards the dry desert of Ladakh. At 6pm the first day, the minibus drops us off in the middle of a majestic valley, russet-brown mountains seeming to close in on us as we stare in amazement. There is a line of large, strong tents and these are to be our home for the night.
After supper, we each of us climb - or fall through exhaution - into big, sturdy beds. I wear a hat, thick walking socks and most of my clean clothes. At about zero degrees, it is, as we were warned, a cold night, yet mercifully much warmer than the minus 40C Ladakh experiences, especially at altitude. Quite why our mini-tented village is situated here, at 4000m above sea level is a mystery - and not a pleaseant mystery. Halfway through the night, I awake with what seems like a giant headache. Altitude sickness has me in its greedy grasp. I toss and turn the next few hours, feeling like I have the biggest hangover ever. However, unknown to me, Tim, one of my travelling companions, is hyperventilating in a nearby tent. It takes his tentmate, Andy, to force him to calm down. The night mercifully ends, we descend to Leh and all agree never again to sleep 4000m up a mountainside.
As I write this, I have been in Leh, the capital of the Ladakh region, for seven days. And although ostensibly just another stage in our two-month journey , it feels as if we have stumbled into some shangri-la. Yes, I am still in India, I tell myself as Tibetan monks, Tibetan and Kasmiri traders and who knows what manner of tribespeople wander past me, each intent on his or her daily business, whether it be the eternal quest for self-enlightenment or the daily round of buying and selling enough of something in order to feed the family.
Leh and Ladakh (as far as I have so far ventured outside of the cityare very comfortable places to be. The pace of life is decidedly slow (aided by the frequent power cuts) and the people are very, very friendly. The exile Tibetans, in particular, seem genuinely calm, relaxed and open people. Should that be in any part due to the influence of the Tibetan Buddhism that is practised by the majority of Ladakh's population, then I'm considering a change of religion.
I've practised yoga here (well, ok, once) as well as meditation. Really more for socialising and getting to know like-minded people than anything else: later, I keep my money in my pocket and, arising early, sun both body and soul on some sun-drenched veranda.
Yesterday, a first in my life: I went rafting. Mild rafting, Grade II for those in the know. But it was on the Indus river. Let me say that again: I rafted in the beautiful sunshine, surrounded by ancient crags and cliffs, ON THE INDUS RIVER!
Having dried off and calmed down a bit, I shall leave Leh today and embark upon a four-day meditation course at a meditation centre/ashram some kilometres from the city. I am looking forward to it immensely. Many people ask me what meditation actually entails. Having been an (inconstant) practitioner for over twenty years now, I still feel unqualified to give a satisfactory answer. There are as many ways to meditate - and things to meditate upon - as there are souls on the earth or stars in the sky. I hope to know more after the next few days. What I do know, however, is that here in India, in Ladakh, mostly on my own, I have oodles of time to reflect, learn, meditate. I see myself changing day by day. There is no-one here to act to, to act against, to defend myself against - as we all are forced to do in our normal, daily lives.
I shall end my journey a different man from when I began it. 'Different' in what ways I cannot tell, but a better man, one who knows himself much more than before and, consequently, is more honest with both himself and those he is blessed enough to have in his life.
A SILENT MEDITATION
Why is it that the words 'silent retreat' never appeared on the poster? Only when I had chosen my dormitory bed and showed my face for a get-to-know-you cup of tea, did I hear those words. Still, I was used to such retreats (although not for four days) and didn't anticipate any problems. The Mahobodhi Meditation Centre, situated in the stark hills 10km out of Leh, is an oasis in the desert, literally and figuratively. Literally, as the thriving community of Buddhist monks, workers, schoolboysm schoolgirls, child novice monks and nuns, local disabled and old people have, since 1995, been steadily, painstakingly, creating a self-sustaining spiritual, humanistic, community in - effectively - the desert. In between long Buddhist meditation sessions and lectures on Buddhist philosophy, delivered by an affable, smiling monk, me and my silent colleagues were free to wander around the grounds during our 'walking meditations', and marvel at the hard work, love and dedication required to create a healthy, thriving community from nothing in such a short space of time.
Like, I believe, most of my fellow 'retreaters', I benefitted greatly from the four-day retreat. The meditations were very useful and will stand me in good stead in the future. Of course, both mind and body, being used to running riot every day, immediately rebelled against being told what to do. But I got there, slowly: both mind and body falling into place, at first resentfully, then - almost - willingly. Like an unruly child, the mind will always try to break free of control, but, also like a child, deep down it needs and respects discipline.
The days began at five in the morning, just before dawn. The gentle, deep and dull 'bong' of a Tibetan drum (hit somewhere in the darkness outside) drawing my dreams to a close, reverberating between the sand and the brilliant stars overhead. By the fourth morning, both body and mind had already adjusted to this early start, although of course, not without the odd moan and groan.
On the final day, we were treated to specially-written songs by the very young novice and monks and nuns (one delightful little 'nun' as young as 6 years old - but what a spirit! Her eyes shone like diamonds and seemed to look deep into one's soul). In the meditation hall, we each arose in turn to be presented with a scarf and blessing from the head monk. It was one of the most beautiful experiences of my life and I know I shall always carry the blessings of that moment and the whole four days with me throughout my life.
A slight rude awakening as the Centre bus kindly brought us back to Leh, each of us then slipping away silently into the night, trying to avoid the shrill noises and turbulent city energies we had been free from for the past four days. I laid my head on my guest house pillow, cosy in the knowledge that, I would not dream of Tibetan drums and could sleep as long as I liked.
LEH BACK TO MANALI
All good things come to an end and it was soon time for me to leave Ladakh. This time, I chose a straight-through journey of 20 hours, thereby avoiding the overnight - and high altitude - stopover. The journey over the highest mountain roads in the world was long, bumpy and dangerous. Fortunately, it wasn't until after my arrival back in Manali that I learned that the drivers catch only a few hours' sleep, at best, before doing the whole thing again ... and again ... and again. Life, it seems, can be pretty cheap in some parts of the world.
Old Manali was its usual self: straggling monsoon rain beating down on the tin rooves of cafes and bars, beneath which sit multi-coloured travellers, recovering: some from treks and near-epic journeys , some from too much locally-grown cannabis and all-night parties. This time I got out before getting sucked in.
MANALI TO AMRITSAR
At this point, we were three or four weeks into our two-month trip to India and Nepal. As a Himalayan trek of a couple of weeks still lay ahead of us, we spread out our big map on the table and began to prioritise. Back in England, we'd put week's tour of Rajasthan on the 'A' list. However, with both time and the scale of any travelling around Indian now unavoidable, we chose to ditch all but Amritsar, city of the Golden Temple. Moonlit camelrides across the desert, the ancient cities of Jodhpur, Jaipur 'the pink city', and Udaipur, 'the lake city'; all would have to wait if or until we return to this amazing and vast country.
We booked the usual 'Second Class Non Air-Conditioned' train tickets and gazed out of the windows, smoked cigarettes and dozed in the sultry afternoon heat as miles and miles of India rolled timelessly past: lush green paddy fields still soaked with late monsoon rain; a boy guiding water buffalo sees us, lifts his stick and cries out 'Hello' in English. We respond in kind.
The train has a life of its own: a self-supporting ecosystem composed of driver, guards, all manner of passengers (mainly Indian, the few Western faces eliciting, as always, good-naturesd stares and the usual questions: 'Where from?', 'Which country?', 'Your name?' etc.). Inside the carriage there is a steady stream of people selling food and drink, chai (tea) being the most popular. I wonder if they are employed by the railway (probably not) and whether, next time I take a train, I could buy a large thermos, fill it with tea and pass myself off as a chai wallah, thus securing a free train ticket.
Besides those selling food and drink, the odd singer, peddler and beggar ply their way steadily the length of the train. The strangest of these was (quite clearly) a man dressed as a woman, performing, it seemed, a rather poor drag act for the benefit of the bemused, yet appreciative, Indians. The end of the act (attempts at a feminine voice, mock sexual overtures and the inevitable flounce away) is followed, predictably, for a request for money. On both the occasions I encountered this particular form of entertainment (the same man or another?) I kept a low profile, fully aware of the fun an Indian transvestite with a captive audience could have with a tired Englishman.
As usual on this trip, we stayed in a fairly cheap guest house in Amritsar. Consequently, the neighbourhood, were it in Europe somewhere, would probably be 'earmarked for development' and millions of Euros investment. In our two days there, we saw little of the rest of Amritsar, and many fine spots there there must be.
By surprise, in the guest house garden, we run into Alan, a Welshman we last met on our Shimla to Manali journey. We shouldn't be surprised, really. Whilst India is a vast country, the main tourist trail is clearly-marked and very well-trodden. In fact, we also caught up with Alan back in Leh, in Ladakh and were also to see many familiar faces in unlikely locations, before the end of our travels. Right now, however, Alan is still sporting the type of orange headscarf we will later be given to enter the Golden Temple. An old hand of two days' standing, Alan gives us the low-down on Amritsar, before we get down to the serious business of drinking a few beers and exchanging Welsh and Polish tongue-twisters.
Amritsar is in the west of India, in the Punjab, and the majority religion is Sikhism. And what most tourists go to Amritsar for is the Sikh Golden Temple: a complex of buildings built around a large central pool. It is a beautiful place. The pool's blue-white ripples reflect gently against the many walls' white marble and gold. Sound complements light: a soothing yet heady mixture of religious chanting, temple bells, a traditional Indian quartet and the calls of exotic birds combine to induce a slightly hypnotic state of calm and well-being. Wide marble steps lift us over beautifully-kept gardens where groups sit in the sun and the shade, some sleeping, some eating. This is our plan, also. Slowly, we make our way barefoot past the many hundreds of serious worshippers, daytripping families, sadhus (holy men) and other tourists to the food hall.
Every day, in the Golden Temple at Amritsar, many thousands of people (both Sikh and non-Sikh) are fed for free by the volunteer temple workers and its generous benefactors. Soon, we are each given a large metal plate and spoon. Further steps deliver us into a large, cool hall. Many long narrow strips of carpet show where a couple of thousand faithful are sometimes fed at once, many times a day. We sit cross-legged and plates are soon filled with a very pleasing dal bhat. We try not to offend by not drinking the water provided (discreetly sipping instead on plastic bottles hidden in shoulderbags). We take our leave as several hundred fresh diners take their seats. As we walk downstairs, towards the immaculate gardens, we begin to hear a busy, metallic sound, or hundreds of sounds together. We investigate and find dozens of people up to their elbows in washing-up suds, pots and pans. Well, someone has to wash up! We roll up our sleeves and pitch in: three slightly silly-looking westerners washing-up after dal bhat, we are a strange sight and provoke much merriment, especially once we begin taking photos of each other.
AN UNUSUAL BORDER
The other main stop on the Amritsar tourist trail is some twenty kilometres to the west, at the India/Pakistan border: the daily closing of the border. We'd all seen this completely bizarre spectacle on television before and were unanimous in our desire to experience it first-hand. So, the next day, we were tut-tutting (a small motorbike-style covered taxi) along the 'main road', dodging other tut-tuts, potholes, stray cattle (is there any other kind in India?), chasing the sun to the west before the dusk ceremony was over.
Passing (mercifully) noiselessly through several roadside metal detectors, we walked - quickly, a little excitedly - towards what looked like some sort of sports stadium: long and narrow, with raised sides; a velodrome, perhaps. Though there was some time until the ceremony, the crowds on both the Indian and Pakistani sides of the border point were in loud voice, all competing cheers and goodhearted, nationalistic rivalry. In a short time, border guards would enact a most bizarre ritual, but before that, there was the dancing!
Imagine the centre of an elongated racetrack, surrounded by colourful, cheering onlookers: families, couples, tourists, soldiers and police, all in their way having a fine time of it. And in the middle are perhaps a hundred people - mainly young women - dancing to Indian dance music. There is great excitement in the air and some of the more adventurous tourists saddle their long-range cameras and join in the fray, much to the amusement and delight of the locals.
Immaculately-dressed border guards ensure that everyone takes an orderly seat and soon the main event begins. The music dies away and the dancers retake their seats. From both sides of the imposing border gate, nationalistic (and largely goodhumoured) cries arise, mostly, unfortunately, unintelligible to me. "Hindustan!" seems popular, invariably answered with "Jin da bah!" (no, I don't know, either). Why everyone has come so far, and why they are now busily getting themselves in a (well-rehearsed) fever-pitch, is the most bizarre way of closing an international border since a certain Dutchboy tried sticking his finger in a dyke. Unfeasibly tall (and, I suppose, handsome) border guards parade with great noise and outlandish leg movements to outdo their counterparts across the border, some ten metres away. Their extravagantly-plumed hats contrast with their oh-so-serious faces and the crowds roar with approval with every guard's exaggerated stomp towards the border and a ritualistic face-off with his Pakistani counterpart. Eventually, the rays of the sun sink beyond the Pakistani horizon and, in the most crucial and sensitive part of the whole ceremony, the two neighbours' national flags are slowly lowered, crossing at equal height at the mid point. Woe betide the guard who ever got that wrong!
VARANASIWe slip out of Amritsar on a hot and dusty afternoon. Loaded up with mineral water and snacks, we find our seats and settle back for a twenty-hour journey. It's a relaxing, non-eventful, journey and we each of us sleep well. I awake soon after dawn and brush my teeth (at 60mph) by an open connecting door, both the passing water buffaloes, the Indian Railway Network officials and me all oblivious to the Health and Safety implications of my high-speed toilette.
Varanasi is an ancient city in an ancient country. It straddles - or, I should say, nestles lazily - against the River Ganges, the holiest Indian river. Every day, 365 days of the year, bodies are brought here from all across India. The Ganges is India's holiest river and a riverside cremation or, for some, a watery burial will confer great blessings (and release from karma) for the deceased.
The focal point for both pilgrims and tourists alike are the Ghats, a seemingly-unbroken chain of long, stone steps running parallel to the river for several kilometres. Now, in late August, the river is swelled by monsoon rains - from the Himalayas to the sea - and the river is five or six metres higher than usual. Still, some of the ghats' topmost steps are still dry and it is these, especially 'The Burning Ghat' (the sight of most of the riverside cremations), which are the focus of activity now.
Private space and dignity are not human rights, it seems. For many (poorer) Indians, the daily business of washing, food preparation, and social interaction must, perforce, take place in public. However, by the ghats (long stone steps) of the Ganges, each dawn sees thousands of pilgrims and visiting relatives of the recently-deceased wash and bathe themselves in the rivers' purifying waters. Of course, the truth is that the waters here are anything but purifying. Remains from cremated bodies, as well as those of the lower castes sunk (by tradition) within the river itself should, alone, render the river undrinkable. However, there is also much industrial pollution from upstream as well as many open sewers discharging directly into the river. One early morning, we take a dawn boatride and see the sun rise over the timeless river. But we don't touch it , saving that for the brave, the faithful and the plain stupid.
At dusk one may buy a small candle, set within a small metal dish, and launch it gently on the river, sending with it a prayer for a loved one or a 'Godspeed' to the recently-departed. As the cool, calm evening settles over the river, we follow with our eyes the langrous path of our watery candles until, like the souls they travel towards, they begin to merge into one: a warm, fuzzy glow receding into the distance.
The district closest to the river's western bank is called 'the bazaar'. Whilst many Indian cities, in our experience, have 'bazaars', Varanasi's is certainly the most bizarre bazaar: small streets full of shops, stalls, cattle, and people sleeping off the noonday sun seem to wind around themselves in ever more confusing and ingeneous ways. Somebody once said that English was a nation of shopkeepers. Obviously the speaker had never been to an India bazaar. Shops, small small, some smaller (like small dark caves or even recesses from the street itself) present their wares of bottled water, crisps, toilet rolls and a million assorted necessary items for the locals and tourists alike in a most colourful, garish, disorientating manner. In each 'shop' sits the proprietor, at first greeting, then inviting you to buy something from his Aladdin's cave within this secret labyrinth. Negotiating this maze is quite fun in the daytime, but a little disquietening at night, with neither streetlamps nor even the pale blue light of the moon to guide you safely back to your guest house. However, like prettty much all of my time in India, I never felt scared or even apprehensive for my safety. I have felt the company of Indians to be (when not trying to sell me something) gentle, unassuming, friendly.
We stayed a few nights and days in Varanasi. On the last night, we fell in with a couple of Polish girls and all decided that what we really needed was to hear some authentic Indian music. After perhaps half an hour of wrong directions and false leads in the labyrinth, we realised that anywhere that might possibly have played live traditional music would, of course, be closed by now (nearly 10pm). However, nature abhors a vacuum. A middle-aged moustachioed Indian man met us on the stairs and was soon leading us, via a tut-tut taxi and five-minute torchlight journey to 'something special'. Apprehensive, yet hopeful, I, my two male friends and the two Polish girls swallowed hard and trusted to luck. And lucky we were. A few minutes later, we were safely ensconced in the sitting room of a master Sitar player and his equally talented and world-famous son. As we sat crosslegged on the floor, we were treated to the most amazing and beautiful music. All my Indian experiences seemed to drift across my mind as the intoxicating music grew faster and faster, then falling, like a whisper, as were carried along through the night like candles on a dark black river. We left these amazing musicians' house grateful, amazed and laden with 200 rupee CDs.
VARANASI TO NEPAL
Ask any backpacker what they did in India and chances are that the word 'travel' will be one of the first from their sunburnt, chapped lips. India is such a huge country that any change of location invariably involves a combination of tut-tut/taxi, bus and / or train (not including domestic flights) lasting anything from eight hours to a couple of days and nights. This is also thereason why most westeners' travel itenaries - drawn up months before more in hope than expectation - last about as long as a snowflake on the Ganges. Still, there's no fun in staying in one place for too long and, as the Indian-born Rudyard Kipling might have said, 'If you can keep your head while all about you are the toilets on an Indian cross-continental train, you'll be a man, my son'.
Our time in India was drawing to a close and our second month in Nepal was about to begin. From Varanasi to the Nepali capital, Kathmandu, was to be a journey of some two days, including all of the above-mentioned forms of transport, including a cycle rickshaw and (for a blissful two hours) a private jeep just over the border.
But befoe the border is a town about half-way from Varanasi, called Gorakhpur. I only mention Gorakhpur in order that you may see the name, burn it into your memory and promise both me and your mother that you will never, ever go there in your life - or if you do, you swear neither to eat nor sleep there, no matter how hungry or tired you may be. The town is noisy, full of traffic and pollution, rubbish, aggressive touts and has without a doubt the very worst guest houses in India. Oh, and the food (having eventually tried a few 'establishments') is very, very suspect and invariably served in an underlit room on filthy coffee tables.
Hmmm ... the India / Nepal border. Both leaving and, later, re-entering India was one of the more shall we say 'frustrating' parts of our two-month journey. Without being too negative, suffice it to say that Andy, Tim and I suffered at the hands of black-marketers, corrupt money changers, fake booking agents, the slowest and rudest rickshaw wallahs in Asia, and sundry out and out liars, all out to fleece the tourist both sides of the border. Be warned. The town is called Sanauli. Get in and get out before they get you.
To enter Nepal you must buy a visa costing, for the most popular one-month option, US$30. Not having any dollars to hand, we found ourselves in the hands of corrupt money changers who proceeded to fleece us of what little sterling and Indian rupees we had. Apparently, travel broadens the mind. Well, I personally know of one black marketeer who very nearly had his face broadened that day. Laden with heavy backpacks and crushing indignation, we walked through the two borders and completed the Nepal visa entry forms. 'Don't worry', said the smiling Nepali official. 'You're in Nepal now. This is a different country'. And how right he was!
KATHMANDU
Just writing the word Kathmandu is a bit of a buzz. Reading it's not too bad, either. It ranks up there with Timbuktoo and Ulan Bator as magical, almost alien-sounding places; ancient cities which, fabled throughout history, may no longer even exist, buried perhaps by the sands of both time and the desert. Kathmandu may or may not actually exist. You can read what I write about it but if you really want to know if it's still possible to walk those antique streets, you'll just have to make your own journey and find out for yourself.
Kathmandu is (or was?) the capital city of Nepal, a country until recently advertised by the tourist board as 'Royal Nepal'. The posters will all have to change, though, as the monarchy was overthrown in 2007 and a peaceful UN-administered election in 2008 saw the previously revolutionary, and sometimes violent, Maoists become the ruling party in the country's first ever democratic government. Discussing this transition with many Nepalis, there seems to be a general feeling of optimism for the future. However, having also read many daily newspapers in Nepal, it is already evident that the new administration has promised more than it can reasonably deliver. However, the Nepalis - those tough mountain people famous for their fierce Gurkha soldiers - are not taking these early signs of lassitude or corruption lightly. Most days (summer / autumn 2008) see locally-organised roadblocks and demonstrations called in protest against outstanding land issues and the settling of local grievances.
