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.

It's all about the journey is it, Gandhi?

It’s a funny old thing, this travelling lark. According to Gandhi it’s not the destination but the journey that counts.

Good job, really - if I wasn’t getting touched up on buses and scammed on rickshaws there wouldn’t be much to write about.

“So today I went to a café and read my book and then I ate some food and then I walked up a hill and then I skyped my boyfriend and then I sat on my own for a while, bored, and watched a cow take a shit in the road.”

Surely not! Surely it’s meant to go something like this: “So today I roamed exotic lands wearing Indian silk harem pants and incense-scented beads, and then I frolicked in the ocean with skin the colour of a brazil nut: fulfilled; enlightened; joyful; free!”

Only I’m nowhere near the ocean - I‘m in the Himalayas. And the only thing that’s en-lightened is my hair.

These serious travellers - y‘know, the ones with the dreadlocks and those blasé facial expressions - they must be pretty dedicated folk, highly practised in the art of How To Do Absolutely Nothing Except Stare At A Mountain For Days On End.



Perhaps that’s why they always end up festering in groups on a hill somewhere, near sacred monuments, spinning silly bits of wood with fire on top and trying to outdo each other with outlandish trousers and ginormous hair.

Fortunately for you I’m off on a 12-hour bus journey to Manali tomorrow, which will no doubt give me something more interesting to write. Maybe I’ll get touched up again! Or perhaps I’ll break my leg. I’ll be wearing sensible trousers though, don’t you worry.

It’s also the Dalai Lama’s birthday tomorrow - what this quite means I haven’t yet been able to figure out.

“Dalai Lama birthday tomorrow Madam so maybe big party in the town. But Dalai Lama maybe not here my friend, so if he not in McCleod then no party and we do nothing. We see. Shanti shanti.”

That’s that sorted then.

From Delhi to Dharamsala

Phew. Have now escaped the suffocating humidity of Delhi’s pre-Monsoon heat. It wasn’t an easy escape, mind.

I just spent 13 hours on a bus being periodically, and ever so covertly, touched up for the pleasure of this mountain air. Two tablets of valium and not a wink of sleep, due to a voracious wandering hand that kept ’accidentally’ falling off the armrest and onto my leg.

And it wasn’t even a dirty old man. It was a young university student from Pune, who had earlier been part of a conversation in which a Finnish girl and I were explaining in detail what we would like to do to men who can’t keep their hands to themselves.

Chop. Their. Dicks. Off.

Perhaps he misheard?

So now I’m in Dharamsala, the home of the great Dalai Lama. Also home to about a million travellers, a billion yoga and meditation centres, a thousand ayervedic health centres and a rapacious Tibetan-themed marketing ploy.

I’m staying in a place called Bhagsu, which is a few kilometres further north into the mountains, which is full of winding alleyways and crooked houses and cows in the most inappropriate places.

Have found a room with a big window and a view out into the Himalayas. Unfortunately I think it might also have bed bugs, if the string of red welts on my arm are anything to go by. But for £2 a night and some beautiful mountain views, who’s complaining?