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.

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.

The 'beautification' of Delhi

Delhi is, quite literally, falling down around me. It’s currently in the middle of a “beautification process madam”, which means most roads are demolition sites and contain ten times more dirt and rubble than normal - and that’s quite a lot of dirt and rubble for these gladiator sandals to navigate.

The demolitions mostly consist of some men with hammers knocking down houses while hanging from wooden ladders - all safely cordoned off though, of course, with five or six orange traffic cones.

Strangely the traffic cones don’t do much to protect passing heads from falling debris, as the unfortunate man walking in front of me found out yesterday.

After that close call I thought I would save my head (and my feet) and hailed a cycle rickshaw for a relaxing jaunt around the old city, making sure the carriage had a decently constructed roof.

I thought it might be a good chance to take some pictures. It wasn‘t. I spent the best part of an hour juddering along pot-holed roads, praying my teeth didn’t fall out and barely even got my camera out.

I also thought Syria had sharpened my haggling skills - mistaken once again.

“You now pay 200 rupee madam, this is 10km journey madam and there is big traffic,” he shouted back to me while navigating a surely death-ridden crossroad.

“No, it’s not, it’s 2km and we agreed 50 rupees when I got in,” I screamed, while clinging on to the sides for dear life.


Him: “Ah but madam this is loooonng journey, auto-rickshaw you pay 400 rupees.”

Me: “An air-conditioned taxi from the airport is only 310 rupees and that is 20km, why are you lying to me?”

Where upon he would laugh and wobble his head in that inimitable Indian way, which as far as I’m aware can mean yes, no, I don’t know or anything in between. And then round we would go again.

On the way back to my hotel the conversation took another twist:

“You wan’ hotel madam, I know good hotel, only 500 rupees madam.”

Me: “I have a hotel, you saw me walk out of the door and met me outside, have you forgotten? I don’t need a hotel. Thanks."

Him: “Ah but this good hotel madam, good price. I take you there?”

Me: “I have a hotel already. I don’t need a hotel.”

A few minutes later: “Here is hotel madam, you look?”

AAAAAAAh *POP*

The innards and the outards

My first thought during the approach into Delhi airport was that the city looks much like the motherboard of my poor camera - an illogical union of square boxes and wiry roads, all piled together as if the world is running out of space.


Palatial houses and tower blocks jostle with corrugated iron and tarpaulin towns, the spaces between filled with bricks and dust and relics of life (or sanitiser in the case of my camera).

It’s like the city has been furiously shaken and replaced with its innards hanging out like a run-over dog, intestines spilling from rooftops and lingering in crevices.

I really knew I had arrived when I was greeted in the arrivals hall by a putrid smell of faeces (and for the first time in a week it had nothing to do with me YAY).

In my haste to escape the smells and the Eyes - ah, the Eyes! - I scrambled into a taxi forgetting I was wearing a rather large backpack and promptly tumbled straight back out again as it rebounded against the roof. Smooth as ever. The Eyes loved it.

Also have made dreadful error of all errors. During interminable boredom of five-hour wait at Abu Dhabi airport, I booked flights to Sri Lanka for 6 weeks’ time without taking into account the little footnote on my Indian visa, which says: “Cannot enter country within two months of last visit.”

Oops. So it looks like the decision has been made. I can't return to India. Can I feasibly call this fate or is it just pure stupidity?

There's friendly, and then there's FRIENDLY

Syrians are such a friendly bunch. I mean, really friendly - I think I might have mentioned it before.

Even the unfriendly ones aren‘t that unfriendly. You wouldn’t even notice them if it wasn’t for the goggle-eyed stares at your breasts and occasional growling sounds.

One rung up from this there’s the moderately friendly ones: these tend to look politely at the breast area and then, when you catch their eye, smile and say “Well-come”. The meaning of this is always quite ambiguous.

Then you get the really friendly ones. These want to sit next to you, feed you countless cups of sugary tea and invite you home to meet the family.

These are the people who engage all their friends to help you find your way, until you have a Pied Piper throng of Arabs leading you through the city.

Sometimes they also like to put their arms around you and casually waft a hand across your bum cheeks on the way down.

But then there’s the one-eyed madman we met a few days ago - he was in a league of his own.

We first encountered him in a barber shop in Damascus. He beckoned Aaron in and, for reasons unbeknown to me, Aaron accepted the invitation and plonked himself down next to this heaving, one-eyed hunk of a man.



Following what was an obviously engineered twist of fate, I then found myself sandwiched between his bulbous face and sweaty arm, while he repeated his splattering and unlikely statement of being a jockey.



Fast forward ten minutes and we were bemusedly trotting behind him, with absolutely no idea where we were heading, watching as the evening sun streaked through his dress, crisply outlining his black underpants.



He finally reached his destination and led us into what I assumed must be his house. He took us through a hallway, past a darkened room where veiled women lurked in shadows, and into what I can only describe as the most ridiculous room I ever saw in my life.

Lining the walls, neatly placed in order of size, were hundreds of glistening swords and guns.

Giant machetes and bulging sabres perched dangerously above our heads as he stood in the middle of the room, bellowing like a proud father: “You likeee? You likeee?”



Had we solved the mystery of the missing eye?

After showing us a priceless photo of him sat on a bow-legged donkey heralding some type of sword - a jockey, of course! - he then produced a box filled with Arabic clothes and began dressing us up, with his friend appointing himself official photographer.



(There’s also the part where his friend studied my legs a little too aggressively and had to place a cushion on his lap, but I’m not going to expand on that one.)

The next day while wandering through a completely different part of Damascus, we came across a shop that sold every type of sword under the sun.

While we marvelled at the shiny swords suspended from the ceiling, we heard a spluttering voice come from behind us: “My frienda! My frienda! Come and sit downa!”

Lo and behold. There he was. On a stool next to the sword shop, with the sun illuminating his full glory.

Women: know your limits

This country is truly an anomaly.

It’s in George Bush’s ‘Axis of Evil’, yet is among one of the most friendly and hospitable countries I‘ve ever visited. It’s fundamentally Islamic, yet alcohol is freely available. Women, when visible, wear full hijab or burqa, yet I haven’t once felt uncomfortable being significantly more obvious (and loud) and wearing considerably less.

Although a recent breakfast escapade to a street-side falafel store did result in a right kerfuffle.

So there I was, at the bar, innocently chomping away on a great mint and chilli falafel wrap, when I noticed a throng of veiled women outside having an animated discussion with the owner. There must have been five or six women with at least five or six children attached to them in a myriad of ways.

As I watched the scene unfold, it became increasingly clear they were talking about me. Illegible words were punctuated with raised eyebrows and baffled jabs and laughs in my direction. Arms were being thrown in the air in that inimitable Arabic way.

All eyes were on me as I happily stood among the falafel-snuffling men and stuffed the remains of the dripping yoghurty wrap into my mouth.

I couldn’t work out whether the eyes contained envy at the fact I was standing there mingling with the men, or disgust at my inability to eat the falafel with anything remotely resembling femininity.

The moral of the story: Women, know your limits. Laura, take a bib.

A room for Pythagoras

Ridiculous hotel number two: Near the clock tower, Aleppo, Syria. I would tell its name but I’m not sure it has one. Let’s call it Triangle Hotel for posterity’s sake.

We found it as one usually finds things in Syria, through a combination of sign language, phrasebook prodding and meeting a man who knows a man who knows a man who knows a man.

“Cheap otel? Nice otel?” we say, in an attempt to stray from the Lonely Planet trail.

“Oh yes, yes, nice otel, cheap otel. I give you good price, but you no see because room full at moment. Check out 12. I show you other room. Same same but different.” We approve of the room and the deal is done.

So after a hard day of wandering the back streets of Aleppo, we ambled back to the otel for a siesta.

But to our surprise, we found the room in a state of much confusion. This room didn’t have four walls like a normal room, oh no. It was a triangle room. A TRIANGLE. Not only a triangle, but an extremely tiny isosceles triangle.

To give you an idea of precisely how angular it was, we couldn’t even close the curtains due to the ceiling fan rhythmically slapping them into a whirling red frenzy.



Add into the mix some truly gaudy orange seventies wallpaper, polyester leopard-print bed sheets, shutters containing centuries worth of dust, and a fan that sounded like a harem of sparrows being strangled, and sleep is not your friend.

Aleppo and a brand new baby

We’re now on day three of life in Aleppo, sat by the Sheraton swimming pool admiring the higgledy-piggledy city from the monolithic and hideous - but calm - walls of the hotel. It hasn’t all been like this.



Upon arrival we utilised our very smooth Arabic skills - “Salaam alaykooooom! Errrr, do you know errr cam-errr-ahhh shop? Can-non? We buy where?” (Yes. Our language skills are on fire) - and following an exhaustingly hot goose chase around town, we finally struck gold in an underground warren of shops stuffed wall-to-wall with spare car parts and tyres. Well, where else?



Sat behind a filthy desk, smeared in what I assumed to be oil, sat a rotund man who knew a man, who knew another man that owned a shop nearby in which sat a dusty and forlorn looking Canon digital camera.

After some equally smooth haggling, we took the replacement camera baby to explore the new city of Aleppo. I say new city, but what I actually mean is ‘newer city’.

Aleppo is reputedly one of the oldest inhabited cities in the world and the Al-Jdeida quarter was built during the Ottoman era, which makes it approximately 600 years old. Pretty old for a new guy.

So fuelled by a novel breakfast of fava bean soup and raw onions with flat bread, we set off down the crooked alleys to find an almost indecent abundance of photography opportunities.




It was a Friday so the streets were shuttered and peaceful; devoid of women, pavements dotted with turbaned and sleepy men languishing in the shade.

If Canon can't then nobody can

In my last entry I very nearly wrote: 'These things come in threes, I wonder what wıll go wrong next?' And yes. Yes. They do come in threes. And they appear to be gettıng progressively worse the higher the number.

My poor Canon baby has broken. My beautiful Canon baby. My well-behaved, well-travelled, shiny camera baby has been blinded by a vat of sanitiser. All life exhausted, just a ghostly black screen eyeing me with its idle nothingness.

I just had to leave the stupid black box under the watchful beard and tiny spanners of a mullah named Murat down some side alley ın Adana, disturbingly close to a street lined with rotting goat's heads. (I'm starting to regret that Adana Kebap.)



But let's forget about that shocking picture of my camera's intestines for just a second (pictures courtesy of Mr Breslaw)...

We stayed ın the most superbly pink hotel last night - Akdeniz Oteli. Do look it up if ever you fınd yourself in Adana. Barbıe would be truly spoiled wıth the coral-coloured wardrobes, pale pink walls, baby pink lace curtains and pink floral wallpaper border a la MumandDad'sbedroom circa-1989. The picture of cherubs kissing on the walls just about topped it off.

According to our Lonely Planet the hotel has recently been renovated and has handsome furnishings. We think this might be less about the delicate room furnishings and more a dubious euphemism for the abundance of prostitutes in the very special hall-of-mirrors hotel bar. Just found this on a more recent Lonely Planet web page.

Insane... but totally sanitised

Rain. Bloody rain. Everywhere! Also hand sanitiser. Everywhere. No joke. I’m literally more sanitised than I’ve ever been before. And that, unfortunately, has nothing to do with sanity. The co-codamol and valium combination is safely eroding any remaining sanity.


We just spent an hour under the cover of the spice market drying our drenched feet and testing my new camera lens (did I mention I bought a new lens?), when a friendly one-toothed man offered to sanitise my hands. What a nice man! Ooh yes please, I said. But he tipped it up and nothing came out. He shook it. Still nothing. He prodded the top... still nothing! So he shook it and prodded it and shook it again... and BINGO! Whooooooosh... the entire bottle exploded all over me. All. Over. Me. All over him. All over his face. And the camera. AND THE LENS. Head-to-toe. Sanitiser to lens. It was like the fatal meeting of Bridget Jones and Mr Bean.

Aaron came round the corner to find me soaking wet and smelling like a toilet duck, frantically rubbing my camera with a useless, soaking wet piece of tissue... all the while being circled by a ragged man rubbing his bright-red, squinting eyes, muttering illegible Turkish expletives (see below).



We didn’t stick around long enough to find out whether he had actually blinded himself with his own stupidity. I didn’t fancy sanitising my lungs as well as my entire body and belongings. So we shuffled off to a cafe and are now looking out at the rain, ridding the air of all bad smells. I literally could hire myself out as a human air freshener.

We also lost £50 today. That was fun. Although technically I should say Aaron lost £50. The only feasible explanation we have is that instead of putting the money in his money belt, which was under his trousers, he just put it inside his trousers, so as we walked away from the cash machine the notes fell out of his legs, like a human cash dispenser.

Brilliant. Redistributing wealth to the needy. That’s the optimistic way I have chosen to look at it instead of beating him with my soggy umbrella.

We just booked a 20-hour train journey to Adana, which begins at midnight tonight. It’s a feeble attempt at chasing the sun but I’m not entirely convinced of its existence right now.

With two major mishaps under our belt I’m thinking maybe we should just take some valium and put ourselves to bed before boarding the train. A lot can happen in 6 hours.

Prolapsed sun and stormy back

We’re here! And alive. Yay! No missed planes and no mishaps (minus the prolapsed disc five days ago, of course, but I’m choosing to ignore that in favour of valium and codeine... in which case I should technically edit the first sentence to read: “I’m half here”).

But first things first - Istanbul: The blue mosque is not really blue at all, it’s grey (the liars), and that colour basically matches the sky, except the sky is a lot wetter and so are my feet. Gladiator sandals and monsoons are not a good combination, for future reference.



So to sum up, I’ve brought a prolapsed disc, a Monsoon wardrobe and an actual monsoon with me to Turkey. Perfect. If only the Monsoon wardrobe was waterproof.

In other news, Aaron has new Birkenstocks which are literally eating his foot away like some kind of expensive German leprosy, so we’ve spent the day hobbling around like a pair of half-wits. To add to that, my back has been so stupidly painful I haven’t even been able to drag my special disabled wheely backpack along on its wheels, which has left Aaron in a bit of blistered double backpack-carrying dilemma.

So right now we’re frizzy-haired, mute and bleary-eyed, sat in a bar correctly named the ‘Backpacker Bar’, listening to Salt-n-Pepper and Eric Morales blaring from the speakers. Eurosport’s on the TV, and in front of us are two pints of Carlsberg. British much?