A dubious pilgrimage

Some would prostrate themselves across entire mountains for it, many would give an eye, or even a leg, but us, we had to travel along the world’s highest motorable road in a flimsy people carrier, sold to us as a four-wheel drive jeep, encountering one failed brake, three flat tyres and five days of being stranded in the Nubra Valley with a somewhat less than harmonious group of people.





But some might say it was worth it to come face-to-face with the Dalai Lama. Yes, His Actual Holiness the Dalai Lama. Who, from this point onwards, will be known as the cute little red turtle.



Ah that is dedication, you might say. But it wasn’t. It really wasn’t. We didn’t even know it was going to happen. If the brakes on our stupid espace hadn’t failed on the morning of our departure - and each subsequent day - we never would have known how it would feel to sit mere inches away from His Holiness’s cute little red shoes and socks, gazing lovingly at his cute little turtle face, while he spoke to a ‘select’ group of tourists.

His message was clear: Don’t forget Tibet, keep the mind healthy and the body will follow, learn to forgive, concentrate on inner beauty, suppress the ego and practice selflessness. Hear hear.

All of this was eagerly swallowed by my fellow tourists, as they pinched, fought and kicked their way to the front of the group, lethal hands outstretched for a touch of HH’s cute little red dress and a once in a lifetime photo opportunity.



Our elation was quickly dashed as we realised we would be stranded in the valley for yet another evening, after the agency sent the wrong car part from Leh, which is about a 5-hour drive away but had somehow already managed to take 24 hours.

So after a final evening of beer, whiskey and more tension than during the entire series of Big Brother Five, we finally set off for Leh… but, oh no, hang on a minute, what’s that noise?

After brief investigation at a rather dubious looking garage, we discover a large chunk missing from the front tyre.

The mechanic assured us it was “No problem” and sent us on our argumentative way. But three hours later, while navigating a rocky waterfall 17,500ft up the side of a mountain, we hear a disturbing crunching noise and, hang on a second, is the car stuck? Yes it is.

No, no problem at all. After an evacuation of the car and some deft removal of rocks, the car finally jolts forwards to reveal a completely flat tyre. The driver inexplicably wants to continue driving and no amount of persuasion will convince him otherwise so on we go… but, hang on a second, what’s that hissing noise? Oh, that will be the opposite tyre, which is also as flat as a pancake. No, no problem at all.

So there we were, driving across the world’s highest motorable road with an incompetent driver who couldn‘t speak English, two flat tyres, dubious brakes and only one spare tyre, which was bald and had been fixed the previous day with some kind of stick and glue montage, by the mechanic at aforementioned dubious garage.

It’s a miracle we made it back alive.

Don't tell everyone, they'll all want one

Today I experienced a delicacy rarely found outside of India. Plain rice and yellow lentil dal infused with the delicate aromas of coriander and cigarette butt.

It’s like the Indian version of “Who can find the penny in the Christmas pudding?” except it’s “Who can find the cigarette butt carefully placed by the cook into the pot of dal?”

And guess who won?

Yes, indeed it was I. Who else?

I was most overjoyed when on my eighth mouthful of the tasty dal and rice I discovered a black and rotting cigarette butt in my mouth, filling it with the succulent tang of tobacco and ash. Never have I tasted a plate of food so good! And so rare!

They should market it abroad and everything! Like kobi beef! And I hear the lucky butt recipient gets good luck and a lung cancer-free life.

Of course, the manager asked me to keep it quiet for fear of everybody wanting one.

Actually what he really said was: “Because sometimes the cook is smoking while he cooks, you know?”

Ah, well that explains it then.

And to top it all off, the impossible has happened. Merely one day after enthusiastically telling Aaron that, “It rains less than in the Sahara desert in Leh during summer, you know.”

It is now raining. Raining in a mountain desert during summer. Whoever heard such a thing. I wring my hands of this rain thing.

The paradoxes of India

If India were a person, it would certainly be schizophrenic and possibly a complete psychopath.

From standing on the top of a mountain yesterday morning, surveying the distant mountains and thinking that this was perhaps my favourite place in the world…



… I then ventured into the old town, where, in chronological order I was:

a) Accosted by a disgusting, filthy man, who, after asking me most seductively, “You wan’ fuck?” and waggling his middle finger at me like a rabid worm, proceeded to follow me and touch himself while muttering, “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” under his breath;

c) Mere inches away from being attacked by a pack of wild dogs, after mistakenly attempting to navigate their rubbish dump. Fortunately, I do a mean dog impression so managed to scare them off with some authentic growls and woofs. (This makes me sound like Lara Croft - I should probably mention that I was also crying and shaking with fear at the same time);

c) Followed by at least twenty-nine different groups of Indian men, yelling “One photo with you, miss”, who all seemed equally unable to keep their eyes above my neck, and equally unable to take no for an answer. One group of which, after telling them in no uncertain terms that no, I was not going to pose for a photo with their stinky armpits on my shoulder, just followed me into this restaurant and are now sat opposite, staring at me like greedy mere cats.

(Please wait a second while I switch seats so I have my back to them…. )

I feel I should also mention here, purely for the basis of a fair analysis, that I also spent yesterday evening wandering around the old town, poking my head into crevices and whatnot and, after nosily poking my head into a doorway, a lively and slightly crazy Ladakhi lady appeared and invited me into her ancient mud and brick house for chai. And in two days’ time I’m back there for a traditional Ladakhi meal and dancing.

The country might be a psychopath but it certainly isn’t making it easy for me to hate it.

The land of high passes

Julay! I’m writing from Leh, in Ladakh, the land of the high passes. And very high it is too. At approximately 13,000ft high, up on the Tibetan plateau, it‘s inflicting a mild sort of attitude lethargy on me but, regardless of that, is a haven of Buddhist peace and tranquility in comparison to the heaving chaos that lies beneath the mountains.

You’ll also probably be interested to hear that what I just said to you means ‘hello‘. It also means ‘please‘. And ‘thank you‘. And also ‘you’re welcome‘. I’m basically nearly fluent in Ladakhi and I’ve only been here two nights.

The bus trip here was a 20-hour journey of epic proportions. We passed through mountains so giant they’re hard for the eye to comprehend - the highest pass being Taglang-la, which, at 17,500ft, is the second highest motorable road in the world. And didn’t my stomach know it.



I spent the best part of two hours trying not to empty its contents all over the side of the bus, followed by a weird sort of hallucinatory sleep that I kept trying to resist because I thought I was falling into a coma. Fortunately the descent was prompt, which saved me from almost certain death. Phew.

The bulk of the journey passed by in an ecstatic, juddering and sleepless stupor. Every twenty minutes the landscape changed so vastly it was if we were entering new worlds.



The alpine mountain scenery of Manali slowly morphed into rocky, jagged terrain as we ascended Rohtang-la, with snow-tipped peaks hanging above and furious rivers running through the valleys beneath the track.



From here we weaved our way towards the snowy tips - while navigating various unexpected and dangerous waterfall obstacles - into glacier territory, at which point most people were hanging out of the bus windows with cameras precariously attached to their hands.



Unfortunately we couldn’t convince the driver to do photography stops - we could barely even convince him to do toilet stops. “Toilet toilet toilet, all the time toilet,” he moaned, while furiously chewing paan and spitting out of the window, making angry red splotches on the winding track.

Gradually the frozen lakes and snow drifts metamorphosed into smooth, russet-coloured mountains, with blistering and dusty desert plateaus in between, which essentially is where I find myself now, lazily contemplating the daunting mountain in front of me, on the top of which is a “dazzling Buddhist stupa with stupendous views across Leh”, according to Lonely Planet.

Stuff the possibility of acute mountain sickness, who can resist that?

Blood, sex or money

I seem to spend my time in India being assaulted. If I’m not being pestered by rancid smells of faeces, it’s the begging children, screeching horns, bellowing voices, fighting dogs, perverted eyes and drunk saddhu drug dealers (I know! Let's import some, I'm sure they'd catch on like wildfire).

I also appear to be the sole benefactor to the Manali mosquito community. Every square inch of my body is covered in bites and they’re showing no signs of abating, with at least eight fresh ones acquired every evening. And nobody else seems to have a single one. As the nice man in the jewellery shop said while looking at my tits: “Mmmm you must have sweeeeet blood.”

Indeed. It’s just a good job there’s no malaria here or I would undoubtedly be in hospital by now.

On a less irritable note, the sun is shining and the road to Leh is now open again after a series of landslides, collapsing bridges and “some other natural disasters, madam”.

The camera, however, has still not arrived but I’ve decided to bite the bullet and go to Leh tonight anyway, leaving it in the safe hands of Manali post office.

I’m sure when the post master shrugged and did a careful Indian head wobble in response to my question of whether it will be safe, he actually meant to say: “Yes madam, of course.”

So I’ll take his word for it.

Here, have some pictures, of which the first is merely the view from my balcony of an evening:







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Let sleeping dogs lie...

Life has slowed down to a pace almost beyond imaginable. I’m currently top of the improvers’ list in a course named How To Relax And Amuse Oneself For Hours.

This mainly consists of reading books (from start to finish, no less!), café hopping, rain dodging and watching India go by in its amusing way while waiting for the arrival of my intrepid camera.

(Which, by the way, is now unnecessary as the other one has had amiraculous recovery.)

Still no dreadlocks though, I’m happy to report.

The most difficult decision I’m facing each day is what to eat. Chinese, Tibetan, Israeli, Mexican, Continental, Italian, South Indian, North Indian, English - the array of cuisines is simply dazzling, but the end result probably more similar than the locals care to admit.



This morning I opted for an English Breakfast, Madam - toast, beans, eggs and hash brown. Sound familiar? Well it wasn’t. Cumin, turmeric, peppers, onions and chilli all made an appearance in one form or another and, while I certainly enjoy boiled potatoes, yes sir I do, I probably wouldn‘t eat them on toast for breakfast.

I ate all this while watching a particularly amusing game of Indian road roulette, whereby hoards of creaking tuk-tuks chug painfully to the top of the hill, before switching off the engines and juddering down the other side like out-of-control runaway trains, horns screeching as all manner of animals and people scatter into roadside ditches like confused ants.



Apart from the sleeping dogs, of course, which usually just continue snoring in the middle of the road as the vehicles slalom dangerously between them.

Nothing wakes the dogs. Every few metres there’s another one: mangy and flea-bitten, dozing in a doorway; napping on a rock next to the roaring river; asleep on a pillar in the middle of a construction site.



They only awake at night, whereupon they gather underneath my bedroom window and conduct howling wrestling matches.

Talking of strange animals, there appears to be a glut of them in Manali. So far I’ve encountered two absurdly decorated yaks, a sheep that wakes me up each morning with a ’Laaauuura’ sounding baa; and a crazy myxomatosis-eyed rabbit giant.

And when I say giant, I mean giant: as big and as white as a polar bear - or perhaps just a little smaller.

For the meagre sum of 20 rupees the equally-as-crazy-eyed owner will let you hold him. Personally I would pay 20 pounds to never even have to see it again.

Impotent in Manali

All you impotent men out there: I have new-found sympathy. I now know how it feels to have an impressive looking bit of equipment that‘s about as much use as a chocolate teapot.

But would an impotent men ever go to a whore house? No sir, no he wouldn‘t, because that would be hell, wouldn't it?

Well that’s basically where I am right now. Sat in Manali, watching the River Beas tumble down the mountain through jagged, snow-covered peaks and evergreen firs, meandering through traditional wood and stone houses, with a stupid black box that looks like a camera, talks like a camera, but acts like an ornament.

If I was anywhere near Adana, I would take the stupid black box back to Murat the Mullah with his stupid pointy fingers and nose, and demand he fix it for free, and that he does it properly this time. But I’m not. So instead I have to wait here for a week while my trusty replacement crosses oceans and mountains to be with me, before I undertake the mammoth and teeth-shattering 18-hour bus trip to Leh.

It’s not so bad. I have a £2-a-night bedroom with clean, white sheets and a balcony, a myriad of relaxing riverside cafes and even some riverside entertainment. Although by entertainment I actually mean Manali’s form of child cruelty, which comprises equipping your child with a small metal hoop, a hat with a metre-long tassle on the top, a burlap sack and a begging bowl and making it do insane tricks in front of tourists, like a circus monkey.

If this is what they do with double-jointed kids, I’m very glad I wasn’t born in Manali.