Feathered Aspen


Sept. 18 and 19 Rambok to Leh

September 19, 2010

We woke up with the sun pouring through the curtains. For breakfast, we munched on the last of our millet crackers and apricot jam, and then packing up our dirty laundry, we set out for Dzomsa. I may have mentioned this lovely place before, but it really is like a traveller’s refuge: they serve tea and juice, provide boiled, filtered water for 10 rupees a liter, sell fiction in all sorts of different languages, offer organic and locally grown trekking food, and wash and dry your clothes with environmentally friendly soap. The woman who works there hums to herself the entire time. It’s an entirely inexpensive and pleasant place all around.

Once we had dropped off our clothing (she made us count each article so that we wouldn’t lose any), we walked up the old footpath to Sangkar Gompa. Today, we had decided, we wanted to see all the Gompas. Although there are many here in Ladakh, most of India is not so predominantly Buddhist. We wanted to taken in the Buddhist monasteries while we could.
Unfortunately, Sangkar was closed for Sunday. We walked through the courtyard and admired the lovely entrance and the lit candles. Dogs were napping in the garden, and inside their rooms, monks were chanting their prayers. We looked at our map and decided to try the other Gompas up near Leh Palace, and on our way, we wanted to see the ‘Forest of Stupahs.’

Walking through the domestic, farming neighborhoods of outer Leh, we passed Ladakhis walking to school and work. Going downhill, motorcyclists would turn off their engines and coast to save gas. Cows and donkeys milled about in the streets.

We found the Forest of Stupahs behind a couple of Ladakhi homes. Following protocol, we walked to the left of the Stupahs and admired all the carved prayer stones that had been stacked at their feet. There were a couple dozen of them, and Joshua took some lovely black-and-white photos of them with the mountains in the distance. In the middle of the ‘Forest’ I met a baby calf with big, heavily-fringed eyes. He tried to eat my scarf, and he let me scratch the top of his head.

Walking up to Leh Palace, we admired the views of the city. At the top, yet another Gompa was closed. We retraced the steps we had taken a couple days earlier and tried the Gompas below the palace. No luck there, either.

Finally, tired and thwarted, we made our way back down. In the city center, we stuck our heads inside a courtyard and found another Gompa. We walked in, took off our shoes, and went inside. Like the prayer room in the palace, the beams, pillars, ceilings and walls are decorated with textiles, masks, and sculptures. In the center, an altar to the Dalai Lama had pillows, votives, and – you guessed it – Christmas lights. In the corner, a monk sat near a gong and chanted his prayers. It was lovely.

Pleased that we had finally seen a Gompa, we went in search of lunch. Unfortunately, My Secret Recipe Bakery was closed, so we went to another restaurant down the road, Chopsticks. We ordered some honey, lemon, and ginger tea with a couple plates of curry and rice. While we ate, we listened as an American came in and arranged with the manager (Juma, the same man who sold us our bus tickets at Glacier Adventures) a special lunch for the US Ambassador who would be arriving the next day. Apparently, Juma had been very helpful to the Ambassador and the American tourists just after the flood. The lunch was meant to be a thank you to Juma and a chance for the media to see the Ambassador checking up on the flood relief efforts.

Once we had finished our meal, we said goodbye to Juma and went to the markets. Leh is known for its artisan and craft markets, and its supposedly a remnant of the Silk Road. While there are many permanent shops, there are also a number of markets set up beneath temporary parachutes. Many of them are advertised as ‘Tibetan Refugee Markets,’ but I’m not sure if all the goods and all the sellers are Tibetan; the word ‘Tibet’ is a sort of catch phrase for a lot of hippyish, SDS-type travellers. (Which is not to say that the plight of Tibetans is over-dramatized or any less real. China’s occupation of Tibet is very serious, and many Tibetans have suffered a great deal.)

Although I had been expecting the jewelry and crafts to be extremely cheap, the women’s opening prices were extremely steep. For one silver ring, a woman wanted 700 rupees (15 dollars), and most necklaces started at 600 rupees. Although I had been a ruthless haggler in South America, something about the banner that said ‘refugee’ made it difficult for me to offer them less. The women obviously wanted to haggle with me, but when they gave me their outrageous prices, I simply wanted to move on rather than offer them less. They would even ask me, ‘ok. How much you offer?’ Just by being reticent, they would often drop their prices nearly in half, but I still wasn’t ready to drop that kind of money.

Leh is also known for its lapis lazuli trade, and finally, one woman offered me a deal that I took: three lovely earrings, one turquoise bracelet, and one lapis lazuli necklace for 800 rupees. For 17 dollars, I thought that was a fairly good deal, or at least, better than anyone else was offering.
We wandered in and out of the other markets, but the prices were still very high. We lusted after some lovely stone-encrusted tea sets, door knobs, and singing prayer bowls (bronze bowls that sing when you run a fabric covered stick around the edge) which were actually more reasonably priced (1300 rupees for an enormous, lovely tea set), but there was no way that we could carry them.

In one other market, I found another lapis lazuli necklace, and although the price was still to high – 500 rupees – I took it. Although some of the other jewelry might contain fabricated or painted stones, this was the real thing: it has a pleasing weight and the beautiful blue stones have lots of white inclusions in them. The woman told me that lapis lazuli is ‘good for the blood.’

After a while, we grew tired of shopping. This is unusual for me, but the refugee thing was really getting to me. It was hard to haggle. Joshua was a little disappointed in me, and he very logically argued that the people who were selling their wares were no harder off here than they had been in South America. I had really enjoyed the haggling, and if they didn’t want you to haggle, then wouldn’t they put price tags on things? He was right, but I’m not sure what had changed. In South America, I really didn’t have much money. When I haggled, I gave them what I could afford. Now, I have more money. It just feels cheap to offer them less when they have so little and I have so much. I don’t know. We’ll see.

We rested in the guest house for a little bit, and after we read for a couple of hours, we went out again. First, we stopped at Glacier Adventures to check in with Juma. We wanted to know where we would pick up the bus later that night. Juma was there, and although he didn’t have our answers quite yet, we passed a pleasant half hour just chatting. We asked him about how he felt about the US Ambassador coming, and he shrugged modestly. ‘I was just trying to help,’ he said. One of his friends came in, and when he saw the India Lonely Planet in our hands, he asked us if he could look through it. Immediately flipping to Kerala, he told us he was intrigued by what they said about his hometown in the very South of India. There were both very friendly, and we really enjoyed talking to them. Juma told us to come back later in the evening, and after we left, we browsed through a few more shops. Not finding anything else we had to have, we looked at our map and went in search for the Moti market, the market that Ladakhis use to by their daily goods.

As soon as we entered the Moti market, we started enjoying ourselves a lot more. Off the strip, this market wasn’t targeted towards tourists. There were hundreds of pots and pans spilling over the walk and Ladakhis haggling over the last rupee. Tunics for women’s shalwar kameez hung out of windows, and women browsed through golden bangles. There was nothing in particular that we needed or wanted, so we watched. Unfortunately, the market was just closing so we didn’t get to see it in full force, but it was fun to walk through anyway.

On our way back into town, we walked through the side streets. Barbers were giving men hot shaves, and on the floor, there were piles of hair. Tailors were whipping up suits and dresses, and in one corner, people were stirring big vats with fabric and steaming-hot red dye for monks’ robes. Just before we were about to walk back out to the main road, I saw some lovely embroidery hanging outside of a shop window. Usually, when the shop keepers say, ‘ok, yes, please. You come in now,’ or ‘I’ve been waiting for you! Come look inside!’ I walk by and smile, shaking my head no-thank-you. When I paused to finger the embroidery, an Indian man in a leather jacket hopped up and invited me into his shop. I agreed.

Outside the shop, I had been admiring a simple handle-bag with gorgeous woolen embroidery swirling in flowers. Inside, the shopkeeper pulled out a dozen more in different styles, colors, and patterns. They were gorgeous. He apologized that the fabric ‘is only cashmere. Pashmina is too fine for this work.’ Apparently, in the winter time, many Ladakhis stay inside by the fire and create these beautiful embroidered bags, blankets, and shawls. Most of the embroidery is done with a hook, but the shopkeeper also showed me a pashmina that had the tiniest needle stitching I had ever seen.

Pawing through the mound of bags the man had dumped on his display table, I picked my favorite three – gorgeous bright pink, yellow, and blue embroidery atop a black cloth – and asked the man his price. ‘350 rupees,’ he said.

Well holy shit. I did what no haggler should ever do; I said, ‘you can’t be serious!’ The man smiled and nodded. Obviously, I was about to buy. With a purchase in the offing, we chatted for a bit and exchanged names. Rajj had beautiful, slightly American-accented English. I asked him if he had ever been to the US, and he laughed. In order to come to the US, he said, you have to be able to show the US consulate your bank account. They won’t let you come unless you have enough money to not only buy the ticket there, but also support yourself while you’re there. The average income in India is about 900 dollars, and that is not nearly enough to get an American visa, much less come and visit.

I felt a bit ignorant, but Rajj was very friendly and explained everything kindly. He knew I was completely in love with the embroidery and he explained how he bought it from the remote villages of Ladakh and then sold them here, in his little shop. When he found out that I had studied Art History, he smiled and said, ‘I think I have something you might like.’ From one of his shelves, he took out a large black shawl with bright, beautiful flowered embroidery.

At the risk of vomiting superlatives everywhere, I shall select just one: sublime. As soon as Rajj unfurled the shawl, I knew I had to buy it, no matter the cost. I literally gasped. It is the most beautiful piece of art I have ever seen for sale. It’s gorgeous. It’s sublime.

By now, Rajj liked us. We were chatting easily, and he knew I was absolutely smitten with his embroidered goods. He pulled out half a dozen more shawls with beautiful embroidery, but none compared to the first. Even Joshua was salivating. Rajj lifted the shawl and showed me how it would be worn. Knowing that I had already lost any chance to haggle, I told him that there was no way on Earth I would ever wear anything so beautiful. This would be going up on the wall.
Almost scared to know the answer, I asked Rajj how much. With a look of total honesty and earnestness, he told me, ‘during the high season, I sell these shawls for 3600 rupees. But with the flood, there has been not so much business, and anyway, tomorrow I leave for my family’s shop in Goa. We don’t sell shawls there – it’s too hot. I give you this shawl for 1800 rupees.’
Rajj saw me doing math in my head, and even though we all knew it was pointless – I was going to buy that shawl – he handed me a calculator. 40 dollars. While Rajj and Joshua talked, I divided 2000 by 45 (there’s 45 rupees to the dollar) and figured that I would offer him 2000 rupees for both a bag and this shawl. Before I could even offer, he looked over and said, ‘I give you a bag and the shawl for 2000 rupees.’ Sold. I didn’t even haggle.

When we said goodbye to Rajj, he told us very seriously that we had gotten a very good deal. In truth, everyone says this, but with Rajj I beleive him: for one, 44 dollars for craftsman work like that really does seem like a good price (especially when you compare the 26 dollars I spent on 6 pieces of jewelry), and for two, I would have paid much more for it (and this, to those of you who know me, will mean a lot; I do not part with dollars easily, and that’s an understatement.).

As we walked to pick up our laundry, we sputtered over our find. Joshua was as in love with the shawl as I was, and he agreed: this shawl is not for wearing. It’s for framing, and our children will probably fight over it when we die. It’s so beautiful, it could probably start a family feud.
Once we had picked up our laundry, we went back to Tenzing Dickey’s Tibetan Retaurant for a repeat experience. Again, the food was delicious, and when we finished, we went in search of Juma. We found him at his restaurant, Chopsticks, and he told us that he had just missed us. Apparently, he had taken the bus driver down to our guest house and carefully instructed him to pick us up there and put our packs INSIDE the bus (not on the roof). We thanked him for being so helpful and then went back to the guest house to pack up.

Once we had finished putting everything away, we napped for a couple of hours under the scuzzy blankets (it’s customary for travellers in India to bring their sleeping bags; the extra blankets are for additional warmth, and they are definitely not clean).

September 18, 2010

We woke up just after 7 and packed our bags. Back in the kitchen/dining room, Tsering was making pancakes for breakfast. We sat down at the low tables, and when the pancakes were ready, she served them to us piping hot. Thin and slightly crispy on the edges, they were absolutely delicious. Tsering apologized for serving breakfast a little late; she told us that she had had to milk the yak first before she could mix the pancake batter. We laughed and told her it was fine. It’s not every day that you eat pancakes made with fresh yak milk.

Before we left, Tsering knocked on our door and told me that she had something to give me. Taking my hand, she pressed a little hand-knit bird that she had made. I thanked her, and when we said goodbye, she smiled and waved, telling us to come back again soon.

For the first couple hours of our hike, we slowly made our way uphill. Rambok is in a narrow valley lying between enormous mountains on every side. To get to Stok, we would have to climb Stok Le, a pass at about 16,000 feet. Following the dirt footpath, we passed the grazing fields of Rambok and walked along the rocky stream. From where we were, it was impossible to tell where the path led. We eyed the pointy mountains ahead of us, speculating where we might make our way up. At about an hour and a half, we stopped to take a quick break, and the German couple and their guide, Douwah, passed us.

It took us four and a half hours to reach the top. Those of you who know me know that I like physically challenging tasks; if given the option, I will generally choose the longer route, the more strenuous climb. I like to sweat and grit my teeth, and when it’s over, I feel a vast sense of accomplishment. The one time I can remember giving up on a workout was at the end of January. Joshua and I were training for a marathon, and we went on a 17 mile run. By mile 7, my knee was in serious pain, and by mile 13, I had to walk. At mile 15, I had to stop, and Joshua had to continue on to get the car, come back, and get me. I was devastated. I LOVE running. I LOVE running a long way. Teaching in New Orleans, running was just about the only thing that kept me sane. Although I continued to workout about 7 to 9 hours a week at the gym on the elliptical, bike, and in the pool, I slowly went crazy from the withdrawal.

You might understand, then, exactly what it means when I say that I wanted to give up, throw in the towel, and simply be transported home about 45 minutes from the top of Stok Le. We took rest breaks every 30 minutes, and each time, I thought my lungs might collapse. With 40 to 50 pound packs and just three days of acclimatization under our belts, we were in no shape to take on the incredibly steep path that led up and out of Rambok valley. My legs were trembling, and the higher we got, the more precarious the path became. When I finally convinced myself that I couldn’t, in fact, give up, we continued on to the steepest part of the path yet; it was so steep, there was barely a sign of any path at all, and we basically scrambled our way to the top.
Clearly, I do not have a future in mountain climbing. I may love the mountains, and I do enjoy a good hike through them, but I do not enjoy slippery, scree-filled cliff sides, precipitous drops, and just generally feeling like I’m about to plunge to my death at any moment. I had to stop a couple times to prevent myself from hyperventilating. Joshua, on the other hand, is like a mountain goat. He told me that the path made him nervous too, but really, I think he was having a grand old time.

Finally, finally, we reached the top. For most trekkers, the hike from Rambok to the top of Stok Le is about 3 hours. It took us nearly 5. Granted, most trekkers are just carrying their sleeping bags and maybe a jacket in a tiny pack, but still. It was nothing to write home about (and yet…).
The view from the top was spectacular, but both of us were suffering from massive headaches. We took a couple photos underneath the banner of prayer flags, snapped a few shots of Stok Kangre and the valleys below us, and then continued on our way. Luckily, the path down was not nearly as steep or precarious as the path up; however, it was still rocky and steep enough that we had to walk slowly and we slipped many times. Above us, herds of some kind of animal with enormous horns grazed and occasionally sent down little boulders.

After about another hour of carefully picking our way down the mountain side, my legs were trembling so badly that I wasn’t sure if I would be able to stay upright. We took a break on a large rock, and Joshua force-fed me millet crackers with apricot jam. I had no appetite, but I choked them down anyway. After some water and a dose of ibuprofen, I felt a little better and we continued onwards.

After a while, I started worrying that we weren’t on the right path. Joshua tossed out some geological nonsense about rivers always moving downhill, and therefore, we would inevitably reach Stok near the Indus River irregardless, but I fretted. In the sand, I looked for the footprints of the Germans (who were wearing Converse All-Stars, the crazy nutters). Every once in a while, Joshua said he thought he saw a footprint, but I was dubious. After 2 hours of descending, we walked along the muddy, boulder-strewn river. The path had been washed out in a number of places, but it was a narrow gorge, and our path down was fairly obvious.

It’s a shame we were so freaking miserable, because it really was spectacularly beautiful. The mountains had created these strange rock formations that looked like plates stacked upright on a drying rack. The sky was clear and fantastically blue, and the mountain sides changed from shades of red to brown and yellow. We did notice, and so that we could appreciate it later, we snapped a few photos.

After a while, we took out the map and the written directions. Yup. We had gone the wrong way. Before you ask, yes. I did ask Joshua if he was ABSOLUTELY CERTAIN THAT WE TURN LEFT. He was. No. We did not take out the map or the written directions when we came to the only fork in the road we had come across all day. That would be just silly.

I’m proud of myself. I contained my intense fear and anger at my husband quite well. I simply said, “I’m profoundly frustrated with you at the moment,” and continued on the path. Joshua mumbled something about the laws of geology, and I started wondering just what it might be like to huddle in our sleeping bags inside a cave in the Himalayas. I decided it was doable. The jar of apricot preserves was still about half full, and we had a bag of Himalayan muesli that tasted, as Joshua put it so eloquently, like vomit. We would be ok for another 48 hours. The water situation, however, looked doubtful. Yes, there was a stream, but just a mile ago, I saw a dead, rotting yak carcas lying in the middle. No, thanks.

Joshua is very, very lucky that he knows the laws of geology. After another hour of hiking, we met up with another gorge, and – hallelujah! – another path with distinct Converse All Star footprints. Joshua preened, and I told him just how lucky he was.

Not too long after we met up with the correct path, we passed another parachute cafe. It was empty, and judging from the directions listed in LP, we still had another three hours to go. Luckily, the path led down a gentle gradient, and we were able to pick up the pace.
Joshua and I finally had enough breath to talk, and we spent the last couple of hours chatting, crossing the river, and getting really wet. We lost the trail a couple more times, but we always managed to find it again, and eventually, we saw the buildings of Stok. When we finally made it into Stok, a beautiful woman sitting inside a little shop told us that the bus to Leh would be arriving in about 15 minutes. We sat down on the curb and waited. We both starred at the beautiful woman in the shop. She looked like an angel.

When the bus arrived, we boarded, and for 20 rupees, we were able to ride to Leh. On the way there, the ancient bus with incredible suspension bounced over the narrow, pitted roads. In front, three teenagers had transformed the cab of the bus into a clubhouse. An image of the Dalai Lama had twinkling Christmas lights strung around it with glittering streamers and money taped below. They were blaring high-pitched pop music in an unknown language, and every once in a while, they would stop the bus to hop out and have a little chat with someone they saw on the road. I thought it was great.

Just before we got to Leh, we crossed the Indus River. The steel bridge was absolutely covered in prayer flags, and doing their duty, the flapped magnificently in the river-breeze, sending their prayers… Somewhere. I’m not sure. When we crossed over to the other side, our bus driver dropped us off in the Tibetan refugee camp. There was a big tent with flood relief food and medical aid, and all around, there were impromptu stands selling anything and everything. For 200 rupees, we got a taxi to bring us the last few kilometers into Leh. The sun set.

We had our taxi driver, drop us off on Old Fort Road, just a couple minutes from the center of Leh. Because we would be leaving in the middle of the night the next day, we figured something closer to the center would be better. Jamspal Guest House is just off a little footpath, and like Lakrook, it has a beautiful garden. For 300 rupees, the wonderful, smiley keeper led us up to the second floor and gave us a huge room with lots of windows overlooking the garden. The bed was hard as a rock, but we didn’t care. We dumped our packs.

After 11 hours of hiking and barely any food, we were starving. Just up the road, we found Tenzing Dickey’s Tibetan Restaurant. For less than 200 rupees, we each had a cup of tea, spicy vegetable soup with noodles (Thukpa), and steamed and fried momos. It was delicious, and the inside of the little restaurant was cozy and small. For lights, glowing boxes hung from the ceiling, and on the walls, there were hanging scrolls with sayings by the Dalai Lama.

In paraphrase: The True Meaning of Life. We are on this Earth for perhaps 90 or 100 years. During that time, we must make sure not to waste it. We must wake up each day thankful and develop ourselves so that we may contribute to the happiness of the others. Resolve each day to believe the best about others and to treat them well. Strive to keep negative thoughts about others from your mind. Be kind.

I’m not sure if it’s the altitude, but gazing up at the kind, be-spectacled face of the Dalai Lama (again wreathed in Christmas lights) and reading his words, I felt just a little bit emotional. His words weren’t particularly eloquent or even articulate, and yet, I couldn’t have agreed more. I think he’s absolutely right, and when the Tibetans of Leh pass me on the street and smile at me with all the warmth they can muster, I give it my best shot and smile back. Joo-lay. I wish you good will.

Once we were full, we could barely hold our bodies upright. We headed back to the guest house, and when we got there, the keeper asked us if we might like some hot water. Grimy from our trek, we accepted, and in ten minutes, he knocked on our door and delivered a big bucket of steaming hot water.

Joshua looked at the water and then looked at me. Err… What am I supposed to do with this? I laughed and asked him if he had never taken a sponge bath before. He shook his head. Sometimes, I said, I forget that you weren’t raised by a hippie (yes, Mom. I’m referring to you.). I told him to use the cup provided to dump water over his head and handed him a rag. Have fun 🙂

Although it was cold, the bucket of hot water was too hot. I diluted it with some freezing tap water and quickly cleaned myself. It’s not so bad, and you can get just as clean as you would with a shower head.

Once we were clean, we fell asleep right away. Not even the altitude could keep us from falling asleep tonight.


Himalayan Cowboys

September 18 & 19

Pending. Check back soon.

September 20 and 21, 2010

We set the alarm for 12:45 AM. Outside, we waited in the dark for our bus to arrive. The stray dogs that nap and nuzzle sweetly in the day time had found their prowly night time egos and were walking the streets, howling for trouble. They traveled in packs of six to ten, and if one of them stepped wrong or if they crossed another, they’d snarl and lunge to attack. Joshua swung his pack in his hand, ready to use it as a weapon if necessary, but they trotted by uninterested.

A few minutes after 1 AM, our mini-bus arrived. From the driver’s seat, a short, rangy Ladakhi man hopped out and ordered us to hand over our packs, now. Ok, yes. Go to your seats, now.

In the bus, there were 11 passenger seats. In front, three men were already seated, swaddled in large fleece blankets. As soon as we sat down, it became clear that my seat’s reclining mechanism was AWOL. The only things that kept me sitting upright or laying at an obtuse angle were my abdominal muscles. Still fiddling with the lever, I looked behind me to discover another man stretched out along the back seats. I gasped a startled, ‘joo-lay.’

Our driver swung back in his seat and began driving through the empty streets of Leh, and after a couple of minutes, the man who had been sleeping in the back seat came up to sit next to me. With an enormous smile, he asked us where we were from, and then he told us his name is Aksai and he is from Kathmandu. Then, growing concerned over our thin leggings and simple fleece sweaters, he asked us if we might have hats or jackets. He rubbed his shoulders for emphasis.

Everyone else was clearly bundled for sub-zero weather, so when our driver stopped at the next Guest House, we climbed into the back to dig out our rain jackets. As I was fiddling with my rain jacket, angel-faced Aksai took the coat from my hands, pulled out the sleeves, and directed me to step in. A little flustered, I did so, and just as I began to zip up, he straightened out my hood, pulled it over my head, and pat my ears. ‘Good,’ he said, beaming at Joshua and me. We were ready.

At the first guesthouse, we picked up a young man who immediately settled in to sleep. Before he did, we exchanged a perfunctory, ‘where are you from?’ and established that he was Israeli. Driving on a bit further, we stopped for a couple with bicycles. While they dickered with our bus driver over where they would put their cycles and panniers, Aksai beamed at us, and we nodded back, having exhausted all our common vocabulary.

With the cycling couple inside and their bikes strapped on top of another mini-bus, we continued on. Driving out of Leh, we stopped at the bus station where we picked up a man and two women, and then a little further on, we picked up two more men. In all, there were fourteen of us. When the two last men boarded the bus, the two Indian men in blankets crouched in the aisle, wrapped their arms around their legs, and poked their heads out of their fleece shells like turtles. The bus was packed.

Finished lashing the last of the luggage to the roof rack, our bus driver swung back into his seat and started up the engine. The bus coughed and smoked, and over the hum of the engine, he blared Indian, Asian, and American pop music. For the first fifteen minutes, I watched as sleeping Leh slid by the windows, and when we crossed the Indus, I closed my eyes.

Over the next few hours, I was vaguely aware of my body popping and jolting as our driver wound us over dirt roads with deep potholes and enormous boulders. Half sleeping, I watched as our driver man-handled the steering wheel. For him, the drive from Leh to Manali is as much about athleticism as it is about focus and agility. In order not to snap an axle or fly off the road, he had to be completely attuned to the road and his maneuverings the entire time. At some point, I realized that he was not only a maniac, but also truly gifted. I slept a little more deeply.

At about 6 AM, the bus stopped. The sun was just beginning to come up over the horizon, and in the hazy glow of morning, we could just make out the sweep of snowy mountains. In front of us, there were three or four vehicles that had come to a stand still. Ladakhis, tourists, and Buddhist monks in their red robes were milling about, sliding their feet over the icy tracks and looking out over the edge of the road where it dropped into a great abyss.

Our driver jumped out of the bus and walked up to the first vehicle. The woman cyclist wandered outside to pee and came back in to report that the roads were slick with ice and that there was a carrier truck crashed deep in the gorge below. The men gathered in front were getting ready to push the first vehicle up around a particularly narrow, steep, and icy bend. There are no guard rails; there is no shoulder; the road drops off at a vertical pitch.

Sitting in my seat, I watched as the car reversed to the bottom of the slope and then gunned the engine. At the top, the car began to sputter, and the men rushed up behind to push it the last few meters. I let out my breath when the car made it through the curve.

Two more vehicles took the same path, and although one of them came to a standstill, a clever monk scooped up icy dirt to throw in front of the tires. With grit for purchase, they both made it.

Our bus was the largest vehicle to attempt the curve, and muttering something about ‘very dangerous,’ our driver came back from the pushing crew to drive us up and over. We barely made it to the curve before the wheels began to spin and the bus came to a stop. Turning around, our driver commanded, ‘we get out now.’

One by one, the thirteen of us climbed out. I immediately regretted wearing my sandals. Everyone else had sensibly worn hiking boots or sneakers; I was trapsing about in the snow and ice practically barefoot. One monk looked first at my feet and then at me, shaking his head, ‘no good,’ he said.

Our driver gunned the engine again, and we all struggled to push it up and over. Apparently, the monk had spread the word that some crazy white lady was trying to push a mini-bus up over a snowy Himalayan pass in her sandals, and they all demanded that I get back in the bus with our driver.

I really didn’t want to go back in the mini-bus; with the conditions as they were, I was pretty sure that the most dangerous place on Earth was inside that mini-bus, not in my bare feet. Nevertheless, I was not about to make a fuss: if a monk tells you to get inside the mini-bus, you go.

Settled in the passenger seat, our bus driver turned to me and asked me where I was from (that I would be so stupid to wear sandals in the Himalaya). I asked him his name (after all, if I’m about to skip off the side of this cliff with him, I should know his name). ‘Adjay,’ he said. He turned the key in the ignition and paused one last time to look in my direction, ‘ok,’ he said, ‘we might die now.’

I almost died from the terror. For a second, I thought about jumping out of the bus anyway, but I figured that leaving Adjay to die alone in the mini-bus was really bad karma (or whatever), so I stayed. As Adjay revved the engine and everyone else pushed, the bus skidded and slid. At one point, our rear tire came perilously close to the edge, and I heard screams. My heart did a somersault in my mouth.

Finally, we made it over the curve. Adjay stopped the bus, turned to me, and said, ‘that pass is very dangerous. Every year, people die there.’ Not knowing what else to do, I laughed. Adjay looked at me as if I was crazy, ‘I’m not making joke. The buses, they go phttt – whoop!’ He demonstrated with his hands. I nodded. I understand.

We hopped out the bus to help the bus with the bikes up and over. While we waited, I dug out my hiking boots and rain pants for warmth. Next time, I’m not getting back in the bus, monk or no monk.

With the other bus over the curve, we all bundled back into the bus. Adjay guided us slowly over the last few snowy kilometers to the pass. Over the next couple of hours, we watched as the sun warmed the snowy peaks. I dozed for bit, warmer in my rain suit and boots.

By 10 AM, we had stopped a few more times to help the bus with the bikes. There was a serious language barrier, so while the tourists speculated – brakes? Alternator? Engine-thingy? – the Indians and Ladakhis bickered over the open hood. People grumbled about being hungry, and digging out the apricots we had brought with us, I told Joshua to pass them around. He started with the Indian man sitting in the aisle. Misunderstanding, he took them and burried them under his blanket for later (for the rest of the time, he nodded his head gravely whenever he saw me and even smiled at me once.)

Finally, we arrived at parachute village. Inside tents made of parachutes, women were cooking bhaat dal over an open fire. We gathered round a low table, and as soon as we sat, the women poured us each cups of hot, milky chai from their thermos. When they served us the dal, I looked dubiously at the offering: it’s not that it didn’t smell good, but I had seen one of the women retrieve the rice from a pan covered in skanky blankets out back. When everyone else dug in, I said a prayer to the god of Delhi-Belly and did too.

When we had all finished, we gathered outside to watch a team of Indians repair the other bus. With a precariously place jack, four bodies under the hood, and a very large rock (?) propping up one side, they fiddled. Their tools included (I shit you not) a hammer and a hand saw. As we watched, we exchanged names. Matan, the Israeli, teased us about our ‘suburban’ names, and he was absolutely tickled when he discovered that we had met on a big yellow school bus in the suburbs. The cycling couple were from Switzerland, but while the woman was from Western Switzerland and spoke German, the man was from Eastern Switzerland and spoke French (this explained their conversations in heavily accented English). Curious about their cycling, I asked them where and how long they had been touring.

Nadeen, the woman, told me that both she and Gaetan, her partner, had begun in Switzerland. While she had started a year and a half ago, Gaetan had started a year ago. Just to double check, I confirmed that they had, indeed, cycled from Switzerland to India. They had. Nadeen had started with her boyfriend at the time, and Gaetan had started with his girlfriend at the time. Six months ago, they met and decided, hey! Let’s switch! And so they had. They’d cycled through the Iran, Afghanistan, Uzbekistan, Pakistan, Staney-stan, and now they were in India. They were cycling the Silk Road.

I asked them where they planned on cycling next. They had taken a detour to Ladakh, and not wanting to cycle back on the same road, they were taking the bus to Spiti, 8 hours outside of Manali. Nadeen told me that she planned to ‘go to Asia. But I think that maybe we are together now,’ she looked at Gaetan surreptitiously to make sure he wasn’t listening. He wasn’t. ‘I will go as far as we are together, and then when we aren’t I think I will stop. Maybe one more year?’ (This conversation is also known as Lifestyles of the Swiss and Crazy.)

I was in awe. It’s not that I want to do the same thing; I don’t. I can’t imagine constantly living with the risk of storms, warfare, and sandy roads. They carry enough food for a week, and each night, they either camp or they stay in hostels or guest homes. They’ve biked through wind, rain, desert, and the Himalaya. They’ve crossed borders that I would never dream of crossing. They don’t wear helmets. Nadeen’s face is weathered from the sun, and she has deep lines around her mouth. I couldn’t begin to guess how old she is: 20s? 30s? Gaetan’s jacket has rips in it from where he has fallen. He’s handsome and just a little bit mean. When I ask him questions, he coolly pretends he doesn’t understand me, and then when I repeat myself, he purposely gives the wrong answer before he gives the right answer (ex: Did you start from Manali? How long did it take you (in reference to their bike ride from Manali to Leh)? He pauses, looking at me as if I were impossibly slow. ‘No,’ he says, ‘I started in Switzerland. It has taken me a year,’ and then, without any further prompting from me, ‘yes. Manali. Two weeks.’ He goes off to smoke a cigarette. Nadeen looks worriedly after him but does not follow.).

After Gaetan had gone off to smoke a cigarette, we watched as the team of Indians finished up their handiwork. Somehow, they had found a log, sawed it to size, and tied it to the axle with twine. In addition, they had taken a coat hanger, hammered it into some sort of origami shape and then lodge it into the engine somewhere. I’m serious. I’m not kidding you even a little bit. I wish I had a photo. When they had finished, Adjay, our Himalayan Cowboy, gave the driver a thumbs up and said, ‘brakes good.’ For a test drive, the man whipped a few wheelies. The brakes were, in fact, good.

With the bus repaired, we all jumped back into the bus and went back on the road. There were more mountain passes, and the scenery was spectacular. Over the naked hills and in the middle of nowhere, nomads with their heards of goats walked on and on. Matan gave Joshua and I brain teasers: you’re on a 100 meter cliff. You have a 75 foot rope. You may only anchor at the top and at 50 meters. You also have a pocket knife. How do you get down? Or, your grandfather takes two pills each day. They are two different pills, and both are ‘life-saving cocktails.’ At the beginning of each week, your grandfather puts the pills in a row of pill boxes. It’s the end of the week, and he has two days left. All the pills get mixed up. He can’t buy more (jesus, you Americans think you can fix everything by, ‘oh yeah, we’ll just buy another’), and he must have both pills. How does he survive? Or, you have 27 black balls, all equal in size and color. They are the same in every way, except one of them is heavier. You have a double-pan balance. You may use it three times. How do you find the heaviest ball? (I’ll give you guys the answers if you guess :))

It began to get dark again. The road stopped being quite as bumpy, and the switchbacks grew hair-pin narrow. On one side of the road, there was always a precipitous, breath-taking drop, and although I had managed to stave off the motion sickness through mind-games and sheer will power, the switchbacks and sheer terror and a growing pain in my intestines did me in. At 8 PM, we stopped again for food, and the god of Delhi-Belly stopped listening. It’s official: I gots the squirts.

After more bhaat dal and milky chai (which grows a skin on top – yuck), I went down to the squatter one more time and all of us loaded back into the bus. Clutching a growling Delhi-Belly, bouncing up and down, and freezing, I barely slept for the next 8 hours. In Manali, we all unloaded and parted ways. The bus-ride had taken 27 hours; it was 4 AM, and Joshua and I still had a 10 hour bus ride to Dharamsala. As far as we knew, the next bus left at 8 AM, and after that, the only other buses were at 5 and 6 PM. So, the option was: find a guest house, wake up early, and ride through the day, or sleep longer and take a bus through the night. Um. Not appealing.

Matan walked with us, and as we exited the bus station, a man came up to us and tried to get us to come to his hotel. For the next 30 minutes, we dickered with the man for a room that was as he said as it would be. Eventually, we found out that the bus for Dharamsala left at 5 AM, and we told the man that we wouldn’t be needing a room after all. He got very angry, and it was a nasty scenario all around. Finally, we managed to leave, and when we got to the bus station, a nice man led us to the correct public bus.

At first, the bus was pretty empty, and for a couple of hours, Joshua and I tried to catch a little sleep. After a bit, the bus began to fill up, and we switched to sitting. For the next 8 hours, I dozed on and off. The seats were too close together and my knees knocked against the seat in front of me. Two other women sat in the same seat with me. People stood in the aisles. The bus was packed, and it wound through the softer, greener foothills of the Himalaya. If the mountains of Ladakh are awe-inspiring in their nakedness, these are lush. All around us were waterfalls, gushing rivers, and thick, green forests. I saw my first monkey. In the villages, kiosks sold rich fabrics for women’s clothing, cell phones, freshly harvested fruits and vegetables. The women sitting next to me were wearing oodles of gold jewelry, and everywhere I looked, another woman was wearing a shalwar kameez with the most lovely fabric. Jeans and t-shirts really pall in comparison (or, in my case, a muddy rain suit and greasy hair).

At 1 PM, we arrived at the Palampur Bus Station. Our connecting bus pulled up as we pulled in, and we were on our way in no time. For two more hours, we climbed higher and higher, and then finally, at 3 PM, we arrived in Dharamsala. From the bus station, we climbed a series of steps to the taxi court where we paid a man 170 rupees to drive us the last 8 kilometers into McLeod Ganj.

The streets of McLeod Ganj are narrow and steep. The village is built right into the mountain side, and the hills are covered in pine forest. Monks, hippies, and Indians walk along the side of the roads, and autorickshaws fly by, their drivers leaning on their horns. Our driver dropped us off in front of our guest house, and we went inside. Although it’s a bit expensive (450 rupees a night), we have our own toilet (necessary now that we both have the squirts), shower, and a TV!

Not wasting any time, we immediately dumped our packs, used the toilet, and went back outside. Climbing the hill out of McLeod Ganj, we went in search of the Himalayan Iyengar Yoga Center in Dharamkot, about a mile out of town. Although we had played e-mail tag with their secretary for a couple of weeks now, we had yet to make sure that we were on the roster for yoga classes. Up and over the hill, we passed through busy McLeod Ganj and found ourselves in the woods. Monkeys bounced through the trees and walked alongside us.

In Dharamkot, we found the Center, but a man was walking out of the gate and told us that the office was all locked up and no one was there. We went to investigate, and on the door, there was a handwritten sign that said, ‘call Leon or go to the Yellow House.’

Armed with our cryptic message, we climbed the hill to a cafe and tried to call the phone number we had. Unfortunately, the phone number was a dud. Thinking we had seen the Yellow Guest House next to our Guest House, we walked back to McLeod Ganj. No luck there either. We sent a quick e-mail to the Center explaining our efforts; hopefully, it will all work out.

Back at the Guest House, I took a shower and Joshua went to the book exchange to get a new book. Although we’re blessed to have hot water from a solar heater, there is no cold water. I’m not sure what’s worse: a shower so hot it hurts, or a shower so cold it hurts.

Once we were clean, we walked to a restaurant recommended by LP and ate a dinner overlooking the heart of McLeod Ganj. I ate a vegetable curry and Joshua had a delicious coconut korma. We shared a plate of naan and a cup of tea while we listened to Bob Marley and Kurt Cobain (it’s true; EVERYONE listens to American music).

When we finished our food, we went in search of an adapter for Indian outlets and nail clippers (I was starting to look like a sadhu). Joshua went onto the net to send e-mails to the fam, and I went back to the guest house to catch up on my writing. Before I went up, I said hello to the monk in the office, and in broken English we exchanged greetings. As I turned to go upstairs, he stopped me by asking, ‘you teach me English?’ Like I said, you don’t say no to a monk. Just to clarify, I pointed emphatically and said, ‘you want me to teach you English?’ He nodded eagerly, and I asked him when.


Alive in India!

September 14 and 15, 2010

On the night of the 13th, Lucky found us at our hostel and gave me a couple pieces of her Otia Root which I tucked between my lip and gum and sucked on for hours. Waiting at the bus stop, we said goodbye to Lucky (and hello and goodbye to a couple of Lucky’s new friends who were also leaving) and read our books. Just before the bus came, we met a Canadian named Steve who had been traveling in Egypt and Turkey for the past couple of months. As a Physical Therapist, he had gone over to Kuwait to work for about 6 weeks, and that stint had earned him enough money to travel for a bit.

Eventually, the bus came, and we all boarded, saying goodbye to Cappadocia. Although sleeping on a bus is deeply unsatisfying, we still managed to sleep for most of the 10 hour bus ride. Our bus line, Metro, dropped us off at the Otogar, and although they offered a free shuttle into Sultanhamet, there were too many people waiting, too few buses, and one person said he had been waiting for nearly an hour. We ended up hanging about for a little bit, trying to figure out our best option. The full and mini buses would pull into the parking lot and they didn’t slow down at all: you just had to leap out of the way. It was especially funny when the buses would drive right into the crowds of people, and everyone would try and guess where it was going next in order to stay out of the way.

Opting out of the free shuttle in favor of the more reliable tram/underground route we had taken before, we walked with a French couple and a young undergraduate from Istanbul to the underground. On our walk, we chatted, and by the time we had switched onto the tram, I found that I really liked Claire and Nicholi. The two live in Paris, and Claire works as a freelance translator for film subtitles. She’s interested in documentaries, and she’s spent the past couple of years working on a project involving pen pals of death row inmates in Texas. Before we parted ways at Sultanhamet, we exchanged info and agreed that it had been wonderful to meet one another.

We arrived at the Grand Bazaar at 9 AM. Our flight to Delhi was scheduled to take off at about 6 PM, so we figured that we would need to be at the airport by 3 PM. Taking basically the same route we had taken to get from Sultanhamet to Otogar, we figured we need about an hour to get from the city center to the airport. Which meant we had 5 hours to shop.

The Grand Bazaar is a covered and walled complex that has many aisles made of small stalls. Within the Bazaar, there are also separate sections that specialize in different crafts or products. There’s the leather section; the gold section; the fabric section; the Turkish lamp section; the silk section, etc. Starting from one corner, we methodically made our way, up and down the aisles, to the opposite corner. Because it was still relatively early in the morning, the Bazaar had very few costumers, and all the shop keepers were setting up their wares and drinking tea. As we were slowing down one of the shops, a younger boy poked his head out, beamed hello, and asked us how we were doing. Neither Joshua nor I are very good at figuring out how to evade salesmen while still remaining friendly and polite. Luckily, Yunus, this shop keeper seemed to understand that we were just looking. Like the man in Uchisar, he gave us his business card, hassled me for my sister’s facebook contact (he told us that he had just broken up with his girlfriend last night, and did I have any beautiful sisters? Well, as a matter of fact, yes I do, but no, you may not have her facebook 🙂 ), and then as we were leaving, gave us two free evil-eye magnets as a parting gift.

The jewelry was plentiful, but by and large, none of it really caught my interest: there were silk bracelets with beads and golden clasps, but at 35 lira a piece, I though they were far too expensive. Similarly, the earrings and necklaces were lovely in brass and tarnished silver and many bells, but they too started at 20 lira. What we really wanted to buy were the Turkish lights: with a disc near the ceiling, these lovely, mulit-colored glass globes hang in a staggered spiral. Shops that specialized in Turkish lights were just brimming with these sparkling globes, and we couldn’t help but wish that we had stopped in Turkey on our way back from India (so we could stock up on bigger stuff).

By the time we got to the other corner, Joshua thought there might be something wrong with me. Is it really possible for Ellie to walk through the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul and not buy a single thing? I felt a little disappointed in myself, too; I mean, when else am I going to have the opportunity to load up on Ottoman jewelry? But the truth is I wasn’t particularly enamored with anything, and all the stuff that I might have bought was too expensive. Plus (and I don’t want to disappoint any fantasies you might have had about the Grand Bazaar), it actually wasn’t the greatest craft market we’d ever seen. Don’t get me wrong; it’s still fun to walk through things like this, and it’s definitely a must-see part of Istanbul, but I think I prefer smaller markets where some of the wares are actually being sold by the men and women who made them. The Grand Bazaar seemed too clean, and a lot of the shops were just selling the same things that another shop was selling two stalls down. And, although most of the crafts would have been made by women, there wasn’t a woman in sight.

Once we had finished with the Grand Bazaar, we walked the half mile down towards the Bosphorus. Next to the Yen Cami, the Spice Market is another covered, enclosed complex; however, with just four aisles and all the stalls selling spices, it was quite different. It’s so much fun to browse through all these bushels, sacks, and boxes spilling over with brightly colored, fragrant spices. There was cumin, coriander, saffron, dried jasmine, every kind of loose tea you can imagine, and still some more mysterious powders in nearly neon colors. I had this overwhelming urge just to sink my hands into the saffron, but judging my the price – nearly 200 lira for a quarter kilo – I thought that might be a bad idea.

Outside the Spice Market, we found the same cafe where we had had baklava and tea. Tired from our long night on the bus and wandering the markets, we sat down and savored two small plates of pistachio and walnut baklava. It was enough to make up for not buying anything at the Grand Bazaar, and it was just as good as it had been the time before. Drawing out the experience as long as we could, we read for a little bit.

Walking back up to Sultanhamet, I finally spied the combination I had been looking for: cheap AND cute earrings. For just 2 lira, I was the proud near owner of Ottoman-inspired brass danglies 🙂 In the square, I left Joshua with the bags and went in search of a couple more postcards and stamps. Although writing more postcards had started as a resolution, it’s now one of the things I really enjoy. I love picking them out, figuring out who would like which ones, and then writing little notes while I sit in some fantastic place – above the Bosphorus, below the Blue Mosque, etc.

Postcards written, addressed, stamped, and posted, we used up our last few lira on a piece of boiled corn from one of the street stands and some freshly squeezed pomegranate juice (the answer is yes. Yes this is the most amazing fresh-squeezed juice of your life.). While we were finishing our snack on the park bench, the Call to Prayer sounded from the Blue Mosque. It would take so much longer than just one week to get tired of this sound.

We made our way to the airport by tram and underground, and once we got there, we went through security and took an hour-long nap on the benches. At 4, we checked into Turkish Airlines, and before we boarded, we took turns going to the bathroom to brush our teeth. If you can’t be clean, this is the next best thing: fresh breath 🙂

Turkish Airlines is pretty plush. The seats are a cheery light teal, you get a free package with an eye mask, headphones, ear plugs, and socks (?!), and each seat has an individual self-select screen. The ride from Istanbul to Delhi is just 5 hours, so after we finished eating the delicious Indian-vegetarian in flight meal (I know; delicious AND in flight?!), I chose to watch the Indian-American film, The Namesake (which was ok, but not great).

By the time we arrived in Delhi, it was midnight in Istanbul and 2:30 AM in Delhi. We quickly made our way through immigration (the officer said that the permit to re-enter within 2 months doesn’t apply to neighboring countries, so hopefully we’ll be ok coming back from Nepal), and then waited nervously for our packs. Although they were the last on the carousel, they were there, and I’m certainly not complaining (for a while there, I was thinking, ‘and what exactly do we do when we lose everything?’).

Outside the airport, we searched for the free shuttle to the Domestic Airport. It was hot. I mean, we lived in New Orleans, and if anyone knows the meaning of humidity, it’s people who’ve lived in New Orleans… Delhi brings the meaning of humidity to whole new level. I wasn’t even sweating and I was soaked. Eventually, after asking for directions a couple of times, we found the shuttle and boarded. Thankfully, there was air conditioning a couple of the people riding with us were also flying on the same flight to Leh. Derrick and Aubrey are two gaunt, young Americans who’ve been traveling in the Middle East and Indonesia for the past 6 months. Ironically, they went to LSU together, and Derrick’s from TN while Aubrey’s from TX. It really is very strange to see other American backpackers; we just haven’t seen very many of them.
At the Domestic Airport, we had to go to the Ticketing line to get a print-out that said we had tickets. Before we got to the gate, we had to wait in two more astronomically long lines, and there was really intense security. Thankfully, we made it to the gate just in time to start boarding, and to get to our plane, they took us all on little buses and drove us half-way across the airport, through planes, and around other buses to a plane that looked like it was parked in a parking lot of planes.

The flight from Delhi to Leh is an hour long, and at 6 AM, the plane took off. Although Delhi sits at about 300 m, Leh is at 3500 m (in other words, I think half the flight was just gaining elevation). Before we knew it, the plane had landed in Leh, and we all deboarded to catch little buses to the terminal. With our packs in hand, we headed outside to pre-pay for a taxi into the city-center and then jumped in the back of a jeep taxi.

Prepare yourselves: I’m about to gush. Leh is surrounded on every side by the most magnificent, craggy mountains. Some of the mountain peaks are covered in snow, but most of them are naked and dry. Leh sits nestled in a cup at the base of all these formidable Himalayan peaks, and it is a small oasis of tall, skinny trees, gorgeous vegetable gardens, brick and timber homes with elegant scrollwork and carving, gompahs, stupahs, mosques, and prayer flags around every corner. Cows with horns roam the streets, poking their heads in the trash to rummage for food, and dogs have curled up in corners and along curbs to snooze.

The people may well be the most beautiful people on Earth. A huge Tibetan community, the people of Leh have thick, dark hair, smooth, wide faces, and ready smiles. Everyone says, “joo-lay,” an all-around, all-purpose greeting, farewell, thanks, and you’re welcome. While the men are wearing Western clothes (and some of them wear turbans), the women are either wearing long tunics with baggy pants and a shawl (North Indian shalwar kameez) or even longer tunics with big woolen jackets and traditional, pointy hats. Everyone has a brightly colored shawl wrapped about their head and face to ward of the chill and the smell of exhaust. Occasionally, monks in red robes walk buy. It’s not even fair to talk about the children. They’re freaking adorable, and one of them came up to me and said (in perfect English), “hello. Where are you from?”

Our taxi took us up past the ramshackle city center to the smaller, farm-y neighborhood of Sangkar where we found our guesthouse. Inside a gate festooned with prayer flags, we walked along a beautiful garden, spilling over with flowers, cabbage, root vegetables, and fruit trees. The house is made of brick and carved timber, and the man sweeping the front porch showed us into our room: we have a double bed, a wide window overlooking the garden, and one naked light bulb hanging from the center of the ceiling. For 200 rupees (about 4 dollars), we said, ‘we’ll take it.’

The shower is solar-heated, and since it’s pretty cool (about 20 C), we skipped it today. Upstairs, there is a Turkish toilet and a Ladakhi toilet (read: human compost heap). Thanking our host, we got out our sleeping bags and immediately tumbled into bed. We slept from 9 to 12, and when Joshua’s alarm went off, we pried ourselves out of bed.

The walk into town is about a half mile, and on our way there, we stopped at the Ladakhi Women’s Alliance to fill up on boiled, filtered water (10 rupees per water bottle). The woman behind the counter was popping bubble wrap and beaming at us the entire time. In town, we wandered in search of the bus company that we plan to take to Manali in about 5 days. There aren’t really any maps or street signs, so we had to make do with a rough map in LP. Finally, we found the bus company, but it was closed with directions for another office. That office was closed too.

No worries. We’re charmed by Leh (actually, totally and completely in love), and we’ll find the bus details tomorrow. For today, we went to the book exchange to unload our read novels and stock up on a couple new ones. Hungry, we went in search of a light meal. The altitude started to take its toll, and by the time we had found ‘My Secret Recipe Bakery,’ we were both feeling nauseous and woozy. Although the Secret Bakery wasn’t in LP, the signs for baked bread looked promising (it’s hard to commit to something exotic when you’re feeling like you might pass out). Inside, the Secret Bakery sits next to a school, and in a comfortable room with lots of couches and windows, the bakers served us our meal overlooking Leh and the Himalaya.

We ordered a piece of Himalayan cake which was absolutely delicious – moist with cooked apricots throughout, a bowl of vegetarian noodles – savory, but not too crazy with cabbage and carrots, and ginger-honey-lemon drink. We ate it all for less than 200 rupees, and when we were done, we chewed on the ginger to help with our altitude sickness. All around us, travelers who have come to Leh over and over again told us that we had found the best meal in town on our very first try. We felt blessed 🙂

Feeling much better, we went in search of the vegetable market to stock up on food for dinner. We picked out a couple of apples and pears for 40 rupees, and then we went to check in at an internet cafe. As you might imagine, internet is a bit slow in this neck of the woods, and it took us nearly an hour to write three e-mails. Just as we were finishing, the power went out in Leh (this happens pretty regularly, we gather), and the owner sprinted out to flip on his generator. Outside on the street, shopkeepers were all doing the same thing, and we wandered in search of bread through the smog. Just beneath the Mosque, we found a little bakery and bought some bread, and then up around the next corner, we found a Ladakhi co-op with boiled, filtered water and other home-made, fair-trade food stuffs. We filled up our water bottles and bought the apricot preserves from the beautiful Ladakhi attendant.

Walking back to the guesthouse, we passed more stray livestock in the streets. A couple monks came jogging past us, and we just panted our way slowly up the hill (feeling a little dizzy). At 6:30 PM, the sun began to set, and we made it to our guesthouse just in time to see the sun explode behind the Himalayas. It’s gorgeous here.

For dinner, we munched on a couple fresh rolls and the most delicious apricot preserves you’ve ever had in your whole life. Oh my god. A cute, fat little kitten came out and did her best to work her wiles on us, but Joshua has forbidden me from making friends with the strays. The family who own the guesthouse were finishing up their dailing chores, and their adorable little girl came to get all the pots and pans that had been drying in the intense sun. On her way back to the house, she kept sneaking glances at us, and then when she went inside, I saw her go up to the second floor and sit by the window to spy on us. Her dad tried to stop her, but she wouldn’t listen, and instead, she hid halfway behind the curtain to watch us some more.

At 7:30, it was completely dark and another stray had come to see if there were any crumbs (oops. There were.). I exhibited a vast amount of will power with this adorable puppy sat down at my feet, rested his nose on top of them, and then sweetly begged for more.

Back inside the room, I’m writing, and Joshua’s already fallen asleep. Sounds like a good idea to me.

P.S. This really shouldn’t be a post-script because it suggests that I’m anything less than grateful, but here it is anyway: thank you for all of your concern over my rebellious tonsils. The Otia (Ocea? Osha?) Root proved to be a miracle drug, and I have no more symptoms – yay! I’m feeling much better 🙂