Kargil

The internet is much cheaper here than in Leh, not that 75 cents an hour is really such a big savings- it's all relative when you travel. I reached here by bus, and was not sorry to miss many of those 230 kilometers of mostly monotonous sand and rock. OK, there were a few green villages we passed through, reminiscent of Morocco with mud brick structures and leafy willows, apricots dropping everywhere. And there was Lamayuru Monastery- famous and mysterious in its moonscape setting. But there were also dozens of tour buses and jeeps winding there way up and down the switchbacked road. I was happy sitting by the window in the back row of the bus. I repeatedly had to remove the elbow of the young man sitting next to me from my upper arm, and occassionally had to pull the curtain down to block the searing sun, but it was a pleasant enough ride with an excellent driver and I was able to recover from the 3:50 am wake up alarm.

Riding the 2 km in the dark to reach the bus reminded me of leaving Gilgit for the bus back to Tashkurgan. Only here, the packs of dogs in the road would only lift an eyelid or possibly roust themselves to vacate the roadway as they heard my cycle rolling near. On the final approach up the hill to where the bus was parked however, out of the darkness came the dreaded , vicious, barking of multiple dogs. I used my "scary voice" and growled and barked and roared back at them, swaying my head side to side to scan for their numbers. Eye pairs of phosphorescent blue eyes gleamed back at me. Then people came from the bus yard to see who was screaming. Only me. Only dogs. Harmless, gentle, more-scared-than-me, Indian dogs.

I'm glad to be here in Kargil. I'd heard and read that it was an awful place, just a place to change buses and be goen from. But that was from people who've never been to Gilgit or Chitral in Pakistan. In fact, I am not many kilometers from the LOC (Line of Control) as this part of the Pakistan-Indian border is known. And quite close to those city-towns I've been in before. It is familiar and better in many way, here. For one thing, there ARE women on the street. The Hindi and Buddhist influences temper the Muslim social norms. It feels pretty relaxed.

And so am I. In the morning I plan to set out for my last 5 days of cycling, heading on the Kargil-Padum road through the heart of Zanskar. The main pass is only 4450 meters, so while the road is "rough" (unpaved,) I don't expect it to be too difficult. I will pass by Nun and Kun- two peaks over 7000 meters. There is also a region of women nomads up near the pass, and I hope to be able to pass one night with them.

The stories to tell about my first solo trip to Pangong Lake at the Tibetan border- well, those stories have been started and I hope to post them here before too long. But before long I need to get to sleep to start this final phase in Ladakh.

to the Tibet border at Pangmong Lake

Setting out on my own. In confidence. I had left Leh with Ivan, a Spaniard continuing his solo cycling after a one-month rest in Leh. Our first 30 kms. were in the same general direction, so we enjoyed a leisurely morning together as I retraced yesterday's "training ride" from Leh to Karu. But this day, we found the bridge that eluded me the day before, and were able to take the west side road- higher and hillier and quieter. When we reached Karu, I was disheartened to see a mass of cycles. I quickly recognized Bavo's tidy black Ortliebs, and Amy's bulging red ones. I wasn't prepared to meet them, and I wanted to hide. It was awkward. The four of them looked dusty, tired and calm, having just ridden a week from where we parted ways in Keylong. I had no regrets for not joining the group, even though had I stayed with them, I would probably have been able to ride, as Walter carried a spare tire. There were I few stretches of the route that I'd really wished I could've cycled, but overall, that road seemed to suck- in terms of traffic and road surface. But I never want to travel with more than three. And having missed the chance to ride those kilometers, I was motivated to seek another destination, and that's why I was where I was at the moment- on the way to Pangmong Lake, forming a 130 kilometer border with Tibet.

Amy and crew, Ivan and I all headed in three different directions, late in the afternoon. 10 kilometers and a 500 meter climb brought me to my first halt. A 12 year old school boy escorted me to the village fields, telling me about his success at the day's exams in between chasing the donkeys he was escorting home. He brought me to a family and acted as a translator as I sought permission to put up my tent in their grazed field. A woman combed out a 10-year old girl's hair as I staked out the Hilleberg perfectly in a dry corner of the grass. Irrigation channels are opened and closed with mud, stones and rags throughout the day, allowing the channelized snowmelt to flow through orchards and crop rows. You have to be careful where you pitch your tent. The young man having gone, I held my empty water bottle up to the groomers and they had me follow them to their house to fill it. After filling my bottle, they took me upstairs to the colorfully upholstered living room, pointed to a carpeted cushion-couch, and basically said, "You sleep here." So we all went back out to the field to take down my perfectly erected tent. I helped the girl with her generous amount of homework, impressed at the complexity and cultural relevance of her fifth-grade reading text. This selection was about the legend of a famous Muslim woman who was a gifted poet at a young age, at a time when females were not generally educated, who caught the ear of a prince and became his bride and princess and a nationally famous singer. As a student at the Army Good Will School, she received a quality education which included her choice of religion class: Hindu, Sikh, Muslim or Buddhist, as well as a track suit and two school uniforms (grey trousers, blue sweater, black shoes, two pigtails) which she clearly enjoyed.

I set out early the next morning, riding just 22 kilometers, but climbing 1000 meters. I stopped early since there were few settlements at all, and this was the last one before the summit. If you can call the Army post at Zingral a settlement. The only food was "Maggi," the Indian version of instant noodles, but which require at least 2 minutes of cooking. The commander made it clear that my tent had to be at least 500 meters from the post, "For your own protection." I found it hard to fathom that any of the soldiers would try to take liberties with me or my possessions, but I toted my tent and panniers down into the river valley which separated the post from the road workers' domicile on the other side of the valley. I was suffering from a headache, having moved up to 4800 meters after a relatively low five days at Leh (3550 m). I also think the milk I'd had for dinner and breakfast didn't agree with me, as I felt unable to eat without causing stomach pain. But more debilitating was a painful lung condition that was developing into a dry, unproductive cough. So as a parade of first one, then two, then four of the road workers routed themselves right past my open tent door with long, staring gazes at me in my privacy, my patience turned into shouts. "Get away!" I cried, to no avail. I was ashamed to resorting to picking up stones- every dog knows that motion- and as the four-legged sort responds, so did they, running off down valley. I hated to treat them like like. But I wanted it to stop. So I trudged my breathless self back up to the army post to complain.
"You are supposed to protect people," I explained, "but you sent me down to sleep where these men are bothering me." No sooner had I said this than some orders were given and three men set off down valley to round up the suspects. It was explained that the road workers were low-class (caste?) people with no culture or proper sense.Meanwhile, they told me I couldn't camp there and that I had to return to the previous village- the place I'd slept the night before. Not wanting to backtrack, nor interrupt my program, I explained that I had to sleep at increased altitude in order to cross the pass the next day. Finally they said I could sleep in a building on base. They went down to the valley with me to help me pack up my tent and belongings. Just then, the three returned with a dozen road workers, placed in a sort of line-up. I was asked to identify the offenders. In truth, I could only recognized one man's large coat but I was being pushed to point out the other three. I refused but the soldiers said that these four (including the big-coat guy) had "confessed." And then they started slapping them. I protested at this and then screamed at the officers as they marched the four offenders up to the base for who knows what kind of private punishment. "Who is low class?" I demanded. "Them, who only looked, or you, who are beating them!" Panting in the altitude, I tried to keep up as the four were moving up hill, shouting "Stop it!" with what little breath I had. Finally, the commander ordered the march to halt and called them all back down. In turn, each of the four said sorry but I felt sorriest of all. I only hope there was no retribution after I left. For the night however, I was packed up and resettled in the medical observation tent. They couldn't get permission for me to sleep in the guest house, but they didn't need permission to set me up in the medical building. They brought juice, hot water, a dinner cooked to order and a bottle of oxygen. I was given specific directions not to touch the meds (a full box with a cheat sheet as to their indications and dosage, and to be sure to lock the door, "for your own protection." I slept warm under the wool blankets and had an early start accompanied by no breakfast and a hacking cough.

Riding the 12 kilometers to the top of Chang La was the hardest thing I have ever done. I started out strong, but by the time I summited, I was gasping and coughing. I didn't stay too long at the top, and was so glad to finally reach a tent stop where I could get some food. I sat on the carpeted cushion, next to the low table on the earthen floor and ordered. Maggi, and Lay's (potato chips) and Limca (lemon-lime soda.) I asked the young man who served me if that's what he ate. No. Of course not. So I asked if I could get some real food, like he ate. Yogurt and bread and nuts. Now that was a meal. After I ate, I laid down behind the table and took a refreshing nap. I know many of us feel like sleeping after a good meal. It's so nice to be in a country where the chair is a bed anyway. I awoke and continued down the beautifully paved, delightfully untrafficked and glacially scenic road to the sleepy town of Tangste where I checked into a clean hotel for the night.

I had an early breakfast, and ordered some chapatis to go. I put them on the table to cool before packing them, and it was about 10 kms. down the road when I thought about them again, still sitting on the piece of foil on the lobby furniture. Oh well. Not enough to disturb the absolute serenity of my morning ride downhill, crisscrossing a flowing stream.

A delightful morning ride. The river continually altered its tempo, sometimes slipping stuporously, dutifully reversing its course, this way, that way, in the snakey "S" channels. Other times envigored, one channel chasing another in bubbly jubilance. All the while, green-brown in its churned up liquidity, flowing down while I slid up over the hilly banks, pushed along by a strong tailwind.

The silence was only occasionally cut by a passing jeep, but of an insignificance that forgot itself when the hum and fume passed. Except for one. It beeped and honked, even though I was well off to the side of the road. I dismounted and waited for it to pass when through the open window, the driver called out, "You forgot your lunch box!" Puzzled I looked again as he handed me a plastic bag. Inside were my cooled, foil-wrapped chapatis.
Horses silhoueted against sparkling grass tips that protruded though the overflowed plain. Such a relief- glint on water, and no longer off slopes of shale, stone and sand. It's amazing what a sliver of green does. It is life itself, supporting life and enlivening my spirit which had been ultimately numbed by cosmic-colored slopes: tawny and magenta, amber and puce. Initially engaing, there's a limit to how long these mountain colors can be entertaining. Once the point of saturation is reached, it's all just rocks and sand, sand and rocks. But the narrow land of life in the morning light... it was potent enough to animate all the gorge engulfing me... renewing my fascination with these desert mountainscapes.
A fat marmot hoisted itself up to safety when it heard me roll towards, its long tail dragging behind. Curious horses stopped grazing to sniff and stare. "What steed is that?" they wondered. Shaggy yaks lolling in the distance. Then three horses alone, each gingerly stepping through the muddy bottom, tentatively moving across the floodplain. All this beauty then heralded and sealed with the longest trumpeting donkey bray, not followed by the usual short notes. Just a long bellow, testing the lungs and greeting the day.

The ride was an Edenic treat. Nearly finished. Just a bit more to reach the lake. But of course, an obstacle first. The river crossing. I'd been alerted to the necessity of reaching it in the morning, as it is impassable in the afternoon. I didn't realize it was to be found at the bottom of a detour, off the road, a result of a lack of bridge spanning the side gorge. I was a bit disheartened in my weakend state, to have to descend for a time, and lose my needed altitude. A kind Nepali road worker let me wear his sandals as he helped me push my bike uphill through the knee-deep water flowing down the road. Nobody to help me push the bike back up to the main route though, and with my worsening cough, it was a physical challenge that began to attack my spirit. Once I regained the road, I was feeling confident, especially when I espied a snippet of the turquoise goal: Pangmong Lake
Chris and I had passed this lake from the other side in 2006, albeit in a Tibetan truck. I remember distinctly as the driver explained that this was the Indian border. my curiosity and fascination had been kindled and it was a joyful moment when I made the final descent which brought the northern end of this lake into full view. Reaching here was the hardest physical challenge I have ever met. The initial sight was no disappointment. I combed my NYT crossword-trained mind for words to describe the color: light and dark, electric, midnight, aquamarine, turquoise, violet, multi-hued blues. The mountains, likewise, begged for ever more photos. Puffy clouds, wispy clouds, lenticular domes, expressive starbursts. Against the sky of blue found only at such heights.

I followed the shore for another hour or two. The road rapidly eroded and required crossing slushy gravel and turbid waters caused by several side streams draining the snowy peaks rimming this side of the lake. At last the village of Spamik came into view, of course uphill and in the distance. I walked and pushed and hacked and gasped and nearly collapsed when I finally reached the village. A young Russian woman traveling with her pharmacist boyfriend brought needed help and a linguistic respite- I can think in Russian but have a hard time counting in Hindi. Those Russians showed me a good place to camp, in the territory of Thondup, a childless Tibetan refugee who reached India in his pre-teen years, married a Ladakhi who lost both sons in childbirth, and says, "Never mind about that" when queried about his family history. The man fed me and treated my cough with an herbal steam, and insisted that I overpaid him when I left the next morning. The once-weekly bus was passing through, and in my weakened state, I decided to leave the windy blue-green waters after just one day, and take a ride back up the Chang La. You know I coasted down. Wouldn't you? Back to Leh, into the shower then into bed, I was convinced that I had met with enough success and that it would now be okay to pack up my bike.

I cried on this ride. Once at the accomplishment when I reached the top of Chang La. And again when I reached the lake shore. And again, when I reached the final village of Spagmik (that no foreigners are allowed beyond). But the third time was not of joy. It was tears of being spent. I am spent. I gratefully accepted the 20-something year old Russians' compliment regarding my fitness at 51 to be able to make the pass and reach this place. At the same time, I acknowledge that I am not a super athlete. I pushed my limits on this trip and while pleased, I am also now ready for rest. Maybe my next trip will be in the Netherlands.

By Myself But Not Alone

"There's a Hole in the Bucket, Dear Liza, Dear Liza"
Do you know that song? The one where all the solutions are circular and there is no resolution. Well, my troubles were similar, and the problem was literally circular. Or not, as the case of a cracked rim would prove.

So we went over the Rohtang Pass to Manali and got the wheel rebuilt. We came back over the pass, and one flat tire later we picked up the trail to Keylong, Patseo, Zingzing Bar, Sarchu, Whisky Nullah, Pang, Debring, Rumste and Leh, as I had sketched out the stages to allow for acclimitization to the altitude, and early morning climbs on the switchbacks up the 4 passes en route. Well, 15 km into the ride on my newly built rear wheel, I noticed that it was shifting and it had begun to rub on the rear chain stays. Checing things further under a shady tree, I discovered that the spokes were as loose as a slinky and the wheel was performing as such. I ended up hitching the remaining kms to Keylong, taking enough time that Amy was never far behind. 7 kms shy, the truck I was in turned a corner and I animatedly shoutd, "Stop!" Panniers. Bicycles. Leaning together in front of a little lunch spot. I didn't know whose but I could only think there would be help or at least comraderie. As I neared them, I recognized Bavo's black Ortliebs bags and I found him inside the cafe with the two Austrians I'd met in Kaza- Barbara and Walter. Reunion, lunch and a few minutes later, Amy pulled in. I was able to catch a ride quite quickly and the other three cycled together and got rooms at a hotel. I spent several hours with the wizard of Yogesh Cycle Repair (motorcycles, that is.) he recognized that the spokes had been haphazardly laced, randomly tightened and he set to work remedying all. It took effort with no common language, but he finally understood that the roiginal rear rim had an off-set pattern of spoke holes, and when the hub and spokes were rebuilt onto the front rim, the different length spokes were causing the wheel to be off-center. He did some magic with the axle and a spoke wrench. The thing was perfect. As far as I could tell.

I returned to the hotel and immediately recognized a shift in the social dynamic. So I was not surprised when Amy said she wanted to remain in Keylong one more day because the other three Euroeans wanted a rest day. Having had aout a week of "rest" (if you can call chasing after mechanics and inner tubes and doing laundry and logistics a rest,) I was keen to continue on the way, and save the day for better use once reaching Ladakh. To my mind, we had never been on a shared journey, Amy and I. We were just company to each other, each on our own trip, and not always that pleasant a trip either. We each made our position clear. I had no interest in staying another day, and much less interest in merging into a group of five. Three was already enough for me. So I set off alone, having silently pated ways with Amy. 7:20 am and I was cycling away from Keylong on my own.

It was a delightful morning, not yet hot. The ride climbed along one side of the gorge, presenting the opposite side- a wall of Himalaya. Swirled clouds mingled with the domed glacial cap one the first peak, wisps partially obscured others. A long, flat, serrated silhouette slipped past and finally the morning sun hoisted itself above the facing vertical massifs on the other side of the thunderous gorge. The road surface was unpprepared, all loose stone, deep sand and sharp cobble. The grade was pushing my limits and with the sun's rise, the heat was adding to the taks. But to the challenge of riding on my own, I felt a sense of tentative confidence, not afraid of aything at that point. Knowing full well how easy it would be to hitch with a disabled cycle, real or if need be, feigned. Riding slowly uphill in this heat, and resting in the occassional shade, I was in sight of the turning point- the flat top from whence a respite of descent would ensue when I saw that my rear tire had yet another flat. Only 10 kms on. This Indian tube I had been outfitted with was too fat for my narrow American rim, and the valve stem succumbed to the force of being jammed in. Pssshhhsshh. Flat. The remaining spare- with its valve stem layered with three rounds of seam sealer after the Manali mechanic had ripped it when he removed it- also failed, and with it, my plans to cycle to Leh.

After a ten minute wait, first attempt to hitch was fruitful. A Toyota tourist vehichle with two men and a driver stopped. I'd seen it approaching up the switchbacks from a distance, and when I'd dtermined that indeed it had a roof rack, I hailed it. Later, the backseat passenger, Raja, told me that normally they would never stop for someone. "We're bastards, really. But in the middle of nowhere, like this, we had to stop." Initially they were taking me to the next village, just at the bottom of my unridden descent. But we quickly fell into an enlarged group, and after all I joined them as they took a 150 km road trip to the top of Baralacha Pass and back. With my altimeter in hand, I had the chance to scope out an appropriate camp spot for the night, and that's where I got out on the return leg.

My first impression of the thin man in the backseat was that of a rich prince, with his dark Ray Bans and super stillness. He said he was from Bombay and I immediately associated him with a character from Shantaram (although that book is set in Kolkata,) a drug lord perhaps, with his driver and his presumed personal assistant. We enjoyed company that day and I was touched deeply by this remarkable man, Raja and his helpful younger brother. They were no doubt taking a final trip together, as Raja thinness and inertness were not due to some sort of super-coolness, but to a wasting disease. "He has about three months left," said Lakshman, the intelligent and understated driver. Constant diarrhea, debilitating weakness and a skeletal form even under several layers of clothing, he was prone to hypothermis. Unable to leave the car, except when he matter-fo-factly had the car stop so he could "take a dump," he was pleasant, positive and not once complained of his pain, discomfort, or pending demise. He smiled gently and chatted, and played the music of my teen years on a clear stereo, It was unreal, Credence Clearwater, the Allman Brothers and Led Zeppelin full volume, with a dying man on the road to Leh. Although I still don't understand it, I cried for him the whole time during Stairway to heaven.

That night I camped alone. This is one of my biggest fear points regarding solo travel. The camp was perfect. The mountain stream clear. The moon rose full.

For want of a tube, I was not able to cycle. And so I hitched. This second day I rode in an oil truck, my Trek safely nestled in a spare tire in a recessed space above the cab. A Ladakhi man, it was fascinating to watch him negotiate the necessary road-sharing when two-way traffic passes on a one-lane road. From the cycle it always reminded me of two horses meeting and nuzzling each other, as the opposing drivers pause with their heads at their side windows, adjacent, communicating, negotiating, maneuvering; inching past with barely a millimeter's width clearance. Now I saw it up close and personal. "No Tension." "Relax." These are slogans painted on their sun visors. Too bad some of them use local hooch to accomplish this. At the lunch stop, when the bottle came out,I got out, prudently choosing safety. Not only did I want to avoid drinking drivers, I was still attached to increasing my altitude in steps, and this village- if you can call the strip of parachute tent "truck stops" a village- was already 400 meters higher than my previous night, at 4350 meters. I slept in the dhaba on a blanket covered mud platform under the tent that could easily sleep a dozen with two Israelis, and four Brits, and two French. The next morning I rode with students from the International School of Milan on a summer travel program. Several of them were vomitting with headaches, as they increased their sleeping altitudes 1000 meters per night. I could only imagine the liability! I traveled only a couple hours in their caravan, truly heartbroken at missing two passes and one fabulous descent. I got out at Pang and was delighted to find there, Tony and Tim.

Tony had just celebrated his 69th birthday, while Tim, at 57 , was still a youngster. They were cycling superlight and Tony was absolutely generous with his mechanical skill s and... a spare tube. Back in the game! Really glad I had kept to an altitude regime, and thrilled at the next day's prospect: reaching the base of the Tagalang La, the highest pass on this route, and the second highest motorable pass in the world, according to some. 5260 meters. We agreed to camp together for safety and support: they were bivvying, Tim was feverish and coughing, and I had the stove for cooking. In the morning we climbed up to the Moray Plains and passed the sandy dusty flat stretch which ended with a headwind. Two flats, but by know I could fix them with my eyes closed. Tony had gotten ahead when we passed a road workers' officers base. Although I was well-equipped and keen to camp, Tim clearly needed to avail himself of the apparent resources, and with a little sweet-talking and pleady sort of femal eyes, he was able to get in a bed and sleep sleep sleep. They fed us a hot dinner and everything seemed great. But in the morning, my tire was flat again, the previous day's punctures having joined together into a tear. A short reprive. Tim rode off in the cool early morning and I had a breakfast of canned mackerel in tomato sauce with fresh chapati.

What had taken so long to recognize, dear Liza, was that the Manali mechanic not only botched the wheel building royally, he sliced the inner part of the tire in three places when he removed it, leaving just enough of a shard of metal ply exposed, causing puncture after puncture, from within. The things I learned about bike fixing: Never let anyone do anything you can do yourself. If someone does something, watch every move and question it if need be. Whatever they do for you, check it, check it and check it again. So now I know and so do you.

Next truck and I was sitting in the cab for my last ride before Leh. The driver let me out to take pictures at the top of this fourth and highest pass that I didn't ride over, and stopped in the beautiful village of Rumtse while he and his helper scrubbed and polished the truck under the gushing pipe that seemed installed so high for just that purpose. I was transfices by the scenery. Stripes of burgundy and stone at juxtaposed angles comprised the rising mountains. Below, a turqoise river bounced along next to emeral fields with canary blooms. All under the electric, day-blue, altitude sky. You'd be a clown to dress like that, and even in nature, it made me smile. This truck spent several hours at the weights and customs station while I ate the best mutton fried rice with cilantro, carrots and onions ever. He then passed me off to another driver as he was ot going all the way to Leh. He was the only person to ask for payment and I willingly handed him a 100 rupee note- about $2.50. The next truck stopped just 14 kms short of Leh to was his truck oposite the sign "Please Do Not Wash Vehicles or Clothes." Having been through that already, i hitched from the wrong side of the narrow road, crowded with truck wshers, next to the throngs doing their laundry.

As good fortune unfolded, three local boys took me in their pickup and after doing an errand, they helped me find a room in Leh. i paid them handsomely after shanghaing them for an hour as every single place we checked, from the first to the nearly the last was booked, full, no room. I ended up in the most delightful corner room with the sound of the prayer wheel bell and the lcal stream filling my soul as I rested in leh. I reached it by myself. But as you see, not alone.

30,000 feet and Climbing

Food and Shelter
Over pizza with some very young Brits last night, we were discussing how we journal our travels. I told them about the little calendar boxes I draw in my notebook and how I write just a few keys words to remind me of the day and the place. Usually it includes what I ate. Unless of course, it was more dal bat. If you’ve traveled in the India-Nepal part of the world, you are familiar with this plate of food. For those who travel vicariously, I will explain. It is a nutritious vegetarian serving of chapattis (fresh whole wheat flat bread) ) rice, soupy lentils or other bean things, and a bit of curried vegetables, usually including potatoes. This is lunch or dinner and costs about 80 cents per plate. Usually, seconds are offered as well as chili chutney. Since food varies little in many parts around here, that is what we eat. And parantha for breakfast, which is the same dough with onion and leftover curried potato folded into the middle, but cooked not dry, as chapatti, but with oil or butter fat, on a griddle. Thank God for Kit Kats, which we found being sold in some of the oddest, out of the way places.

And we’ve stayed in some really out of the way spots. It’s amazing how I took pity on the young Nepali road workers who live in stone hovels along side of the national “highway.” But after sleeping a couple nights in similar tarp-covered, mud and stone huts myself, I don’t think of it as such low accommodation after all. Yeah, the wind can be violent in its loud flapping, and you emerge the next morning with a fine, sparkly silt coating- but earplugs and a sense of fashion negate those problems easily. These impromptu beds are found in Dhabas, which are truck stop/cafes found about every 20-30 kilometers along the way. They offer a few sleeping spots- some separate and also communal with the family. They sell soft drinks. They sell Kit Kats. They sell dal.
But currently, it’s no dal for this doll, for I’m in Manali, the Israeli magnet full of delicious western food. Yesterday was cappuccino and mocha fudge cake for breakfast, batter fried Indian cheese balls for lunch, and fresh tomota soup and full on vegetarian pizza for dinner. Tonight I’m planning on nachos with guacamole for the first course, and hot fudge banana split for desert. And I started the day with a hot, melty, chocolate chip cookie. I actually bought two: one for me and one for Raju, the local man who has been my savior. Unfortunately, during a 2-minute stop to check out a map shop on the 3-kilometer way down to the bustling-with-Indian-tourists area called New Manali to meet Raju, I set my rear wheel and pannier down with his wrapped cookie on top. Next second the shopkeeper said, “I think that dog has taken your food,” whereupon I grabbed his broom from his hand and roared and growled at the full-sized German shepherd that had run off with the contents of my yellow napkin. He dropped the cookie. With the 3-second rule, in effect, (which could easily be expanded to 3 minutes when the cyclists’ rules are applied) I promptly retrieved it, thinkg all the while that probably Raju would not want to eat it after all. But the dog, faced with his loss, decided to charge. Bluff charge? I don’t know. But it was a beating, barking commotion that drew a crowd, including the dog’s presumed Master. “Your dog stole my food. It was a present for down side. 20 rupees!” I yelled. In the end I’m not sure who was shaking more. The shopkeeper said I gave that dog the scare of his life. “And he, me.” I refused the 20 rupees and trembled back to the road to continue on my way down to Raju, short a cookie but long on tale.
I heard about Raju through Cass, from Out There Biking. I knew about Cass from his bike touring website and wrote him a desperate plea for assistance when it became apparent to me that my rear rim was cracked, making the rear brake completely unusable and seriously jeopardizing my safety if not the remainder of the trip. End of story: the hub, cassette and 32 spokes on my rear wheel were rebuilt onto the front rim. The front hub, spokes and quick release were donated to the universe. And I am now sporting a fancy, blue Indian front wheel, complete with 36 shiny, twisty spokes. $3.70 to the wheel builder, $36 for the new wheel, and about $18 in gratuity for Raju’s time and generosity. When we head back over Rohtang Pass tomorrow, I will be able to ride with the confidence that has been missing since we first set out. Much as I hate to admit it, I know I left Alaska with this crack in my rim.

Kaza to Manali, Over Kunzum La and Rohtang Pass
July 4 we rode a short and gentle day, climbing 483 meters, on the first stage of crossing the 4551 meter Kunzum La. Amy agreed to try camping that night, and we settled just off the road, not far from the cement irrigation canal that watered the lifeline of crops on the plain falling away to the gorge-hidden headwaters of the Spiti River, which we’d been following for the past week since leaving the Satlej. The small village of Hul was just two-thirds of a kilometer away, which gave me a calm feeling and brought Amy unease. We’d spent over an hour there, trying to teach the local children how to fly the kite Heidi gave me at the Kayak Symposium ending party in June. Or rather, we were trying to learn how to fly it so we could teach them. There success was irrelevant. Just running through the dreary, dusty landscape with this brilliant rainbow of crisp new nylon, 20-foot tail streaming behind, brought sunshine and laughter to their cooperative, turn-taking faces. It was the perfect place to lighten my load for the climb ahead. I slept soundly, at 3739 meters, enjoying the rhythm of sleeping and waking according to the natural light.

July 5 was another short day with a 549 meter climb, as we rolled into Losar in the mid-afternoon. Dismal at first glance, it evolved into one of the loveliest of stays. The woman who ran the place was a great cook with a warm spirit. We were fortunate to share our little sidewalk eating-seating (inside was rich with atmosphere, prayer wheel, candles and dark wood, but permeated with a thick layer of kerosene) with Hamisch and his partner. He was a tinkerer and persistent, which meant that the broken seat post bolt that Amy suffered that afternoon was finally repaired after three attempts. Eartlier a man about Dhaba had located a spare bolt with matching threads. Too bad it was not a hex head, for it needed to be tightened into a recessed part of the seat clamp. I wasn’t successful in locating washers- which I later realized could be pilfered from Amy’s spare brake pad set- and in the end, the local man tightened the bolt so hard it bent. She rode only 20 meters before she was on a rocking horse on wheels. Pedaling with sandals on clip-less pedals didn’t make things any easier. Before we met Hamisch I tried filling the gaps with finely rolled duct tape wads, clamping the whole thing together with zip ties to reduce the rock and roll. It was effective but far from perfect. Third time’s a charm.

July 6 was a full day. Riding over the Kunzum Pass was actually quite easy. We spent time at the temple and were treated to tea by the local caretaker. We then were accompanied by another local as we attempted the recommended shortcut to Chandra Tal (Moon Lake). Not recommended. After forty minutes of floundering, pushing up a scree traverse, the encroaching weather drip sense into us. We made a hasty retreat back to the temple where there was just enough time to dress in full weather gear before descending 400 meters in the blowing rain. Visibility: 5 meters. A Hindi sign about 8 kilometers down was the only clue that this was our turn-off to the lake. No food and lots of climbing made for my most challenging day. We knew there was a dhaba at the lake but we never found it until after I’d cooked one of our emergency meals- potato soup with coconut milk, and instant beans with crackers. Amy’s late evening reconnaissance mission at least gave us hope for the morning. The next day was the most beautiful, as I circled the lake on the high ridge out, and shoreline back. The winds were truly breath-taking, but they blew out before dawn, leaving a silent turquoise morning, punctuated only by a vocal, orange, migratory Siberian duck.

July 8 was a very short ride to the dhaba at Batal- a strategic move to place us in position for a dawn departure before the impeding headwinds. We spent the afternoon watching busses and jeeps unload their charges briefly for a rice dal feeding and a hunt for some toileting privacy. Earplugs were in order for some sleepable quiet.

July 9 was three separate 17 kilometer stages which brought us finally to the base of Rohtang Pass. This was undoubtedly the most difficult of road surfaces, but some of the most rewarding in scenery. Our first stop was initially disappointing as there was no longer a dhaba, and the government rest house caretaker clearly felt no obligation to entertain us. A bit of insistence on my part convinced him to offer us tea- delicious with sheep milk, a first for me. A series of name-dropping: the Losar proprietess was his auntie, the Kunzum local guide was his nephew- and he was scraping the remains of his fine breakfast curry into a pot to serve us with re-heated chapattis, Gifts exchanged and we departed refueled in both body and soul. The second stage took us to a proper daboa where we met Ollie, a mad Englishman who cycled our route in the oppositie direction of a bike more sad than mine. Pieced together from a parts heap at Raju’s shop, it had only the rear brake in working order, a rim tied- yes, tied- with string a broken crank, and who remembers what else. They had just little day packs and rode with power until they found a dry bed each night. Chow mein at the daba was a delicious break from lentils and rice. The final push involed two long, but not scary, water crossings and two unexpected but not insurmountable climbs. We finally arrived at Gramphoo, the crossroad to Leh and Ladakh north, our destination, and over the Rohtang Pass to Manali south, our detour.


July 10- an easy two and a half hour climb up to the Rohtang top. Physically easy, that is. I had an early morning meltdown, shouting a variety of curses- none repeated- at each of the passing army convoy vehichles who took there half (of the road) out of the middle while I was perched on a skinny outside ledge. I regained composure and made the rest of the climb without incident. Until we reached the zoo at the top. At first I found it entertaining- all the Indian tourists who spend the day going up “to the snow.” There are some dirty snow fields that persist through summer up there. These families and newlyweds and groups of friends hire jeeps to come up and spend the afternoon strutting in rented boots and fur coats and snow suits. They ride ponies around the stupas along the ridge. The eat overpriced corn, grilled over little charcoal fires. They teeter on snow and manage to ignore the dust, the mud, the noise and the stench of belching trucks and motorbikes, passing with dangerous speed in these crowded confines. Oh, and did I mention the road construction? Occasional bulldozers digging giant holes, uncontrolled and seemingly never finished. But that was nothing at all compared to the descent. One-lane, monsooned, muddy mess of a road, with non-stop trucks and busses and motorbikes and more and more jeeps and tour vans and private cars coming up and going down all in the one-lane quagmire. With two enormous vultures hovering only feet overhead as they swooped and glided in slow motion, presiding over the stillness of the natural world that they saw, ignorant of the clamatous chaos surrounding them. I lasted about 8 minutes. A kind man had his driver stop, “I’ve cycled 10,000 kilometers in India” he said. In the end, he stopped one of the ”goods carriers” that was returning empty from Leh and within minutes, Amy and I were holding on for dear life in the lurching metal hull with our bikes carefully insulated by our panniers underneath. It didn’t last too long, for at the first stop- two cars cannot pass at the same time on these roads, there is always negotiation and often backing up- I ran to the front (which side is the driver’s side here anywhay?!) and he and his two helpers made room for us in the cab. A white-knuckled descent, when were were not a a standstill. 10 minutes in one place left me skeptical as we watched water run through the newly-bulldozed earth on the bank to our left, which then catastrophically rebalanced with a mini landslide. The pile of rubble in front of us was building and the consensus eventurally led the driver to cancel his patient waiting and make an assertive move out of that tenuous spot. He was careful and kind, and despite an occasional scream or eye-closing, breath-holding moment, we safely descende and were gently deposited in this bustling town of Manali where there is no shortage of good things to eat.

Peo, Pooh, Tabo, Kaza

Sounds not like the villages they are, but like names for puppies. If Amy had her way, she'd be giving these names to the countless dogs she'd take home to Alaska with her. The are everywhere, and luckily, they are docile and gentle. They know where their next meal will come from. My next meal will come from the restaurant across the street from this internet cafe. It serves better western food than many US establishments. And everything is fresh. We're staying in a 5 dollar a night guest house with a wonderful rooftop space. Last night of us random travellers- 2 cyclists, 3 motorbikers, 4 bus riders, from the US, Scotland and Israel, all shared beers and watched shooting stars under the warm, breezy night sky. And that experience pretty much defines this part of the trip: lots of travellers are making their way on this route, and we seemed to have fallen in synch with several, meanng that we meet up in each new town. That has it's pros and cons. Seems the only locals we meet these days are the ones we interface with through commerce: cyber cafe operator, restaurant owner, hotel proprietor etc. It is distinctly lacking in family life, children and genuine cultural exchange. I've had to shift my goals on this bike trip, focusing more on the riding and less on the cultural contact; more on the ease and less on the camping.


We left Rekong Peo with a fortunate event- the pound of cookies we'd bought the evening before were still there at the bakery where we'd left them, and so we were able to head of of town with certain refreshment for the day's ride. That said, this was the most stressful day, and I felt ready to quit. Too many trucks with their endless horn blasts, scary, crumbling, narrow road, continuous light rain. Then we reached the inner line check point- so close to the Tibet border, you need to have your $3.50 paper work in hand- and things became more pleasant. Construction ended and calm remained. Pooh was a lovely night's rest, even if it did entail a late-in-the-day switchbacked, 9 kilometer climb to reach the village. It seems in this vertical Himalayan world, that the only flat surfaces are those terraced from the steeps; going anywhere entails going up. From Pooh we went on to ride our hottest and climbingest day, more than 4000 feet climbing to sleepo at 11,000. The location, "Nako Lake," was funny indeed. As each new group of tourists alit from a bus, you could hear them asking the same thing we did, "Where's the lake?" On the maps it should be huge. In reality, just an algae pond. Still, the village was a wonder of close, winding alleys between Tibetan white-washed, stone and timber dwellings. Calves and dung and stalls and ladders- it really felt like we were somewhere. We took a rest day there, adjusting to the altitude and catching up on sleep. India starts early. Leaving Nako was another thing. We knew there was a landslide to contend with, but knowing that jeeps were able to pass it left us confident. Approaching it was another story. As we neared the final switchback before the impassable section, a natural release occured, sending sand and boulder cascading forcefully to the river below. We tightended our helmets and considered our strategy. Avalanche trained, I determined to pass from safer zone to safer zone, pausing to breathe under each bulging outcropping, hanging above the roadside along the treacherous course. I watched one hard-hatted female worker jog hastily past the most dangerous spot, her baby's unprotected head flopping back and forth as it slept in her back wrap. Another moved quickly, helmet in hand, trusting her prayers to keep her safe. I watched from a safe spot as workmen paused in their task of heaving boulders over the cliff edge to assist Amy in hoisting her bike up and over the rubble. She photographed me in my turn, apologizing for the likely blur due to excessive hand shake. Quite the ordeal. An expansive descent came next, and it would have been a dream downhill cruise, except that the blip in my braking surface had become dangerously pronounced. At this point I believe it is caused by a crack in my rim. Applying the rear brakes caused unpredictable hopping and skidding, to the point where Kamikaze that I may be, I chose to walk (trot) downhill until I reached pavement again. At least there the skidding was more predictable and I could handle the steed. The rest of the ride to the Tabo Monastery was pleasant enough. When we got there, I put Amy's wheel on my bike and determined that the brakes worked fine and the problem is with my rim alone. We spent the morning looking around and had a late start to the day, arriving here in Kaza around 6 pm. I am taking advantage of the first internet in 12 days, and the chance to spend some time alone. Amy went up into the mountains with two American motor bike tourers, one of whom was a big help in diagnosing my wheel problems. Bavo just arrived in town, having taken a quiet day in Tabo alone yesterday. Tomorrow we should head up, or the day after, depending on how the wheel replacement proceeds. In any case, I am looking forward to the opener spaces, the chance to camp, and the bajillions of stars in the high altitude sky.


These four days of riding saw us through to the end of construction and it's dusty roar, to a beautiful landscape reminiscent of Arctic glacial valleys. We continued upstream to the place where the river sparkled in its gravel bed, dancing back and forth in its braided channels. Deep, living green ignited in its brilliance in the terraced villages on both sides of the river. Irridescent barley jiggling in the breeze. Finally, a landscape that speaks to me. Because in the middle, it was two days of rding through rock. If you collect stones, you can understand what mean. It was like taking one of your striped specimens, and blowing it up to the size of a small state, and then miniaturizing yourself and your bike, and riding through the tiny cracks in the rock. Fun, for about five minutes. But worse, was when we passed through the hard rocks and road through the crushed ones. Whole slopes reflected in shimmer-sand grays, above and below to the river, causing my sunglassed and ball-capped shaded eyes to squint from the glare. With temperatures around 100, it was like riding through a not-so-easy bake oven. And then there's Amy, who with every turn of her head proclaimed, "This is beautiful! It's so gorgeous!" To quote a special ed. high school friend, "To reach a zone."

A few faces from the road

Shimla to Rampur to Rekong Peo

Riding in India. Really. Musical horns and painted trucks; sparkle-trimmed saris and golden pocket temples; bright, sunny mangos and purple-red onions. The full fruit-and-vegetable rainbow of colors and sounds. Sure there was dust, and hard to find places to pee. But overall, it was an engaging experience. Especially since each face that met ours would brighten into a big smile with the whole head in side-waddle, a lyrical movement of Hindi hello.
It was a continuously populated ride, which meant we had to sleep indoors. A 17-year old boy who saw us eating at the town Dhaba (café) helped us find our way to the government rest house, just across the road and next to the K-10 school, at the end of our first day’s ride. A half hour of negotiations took place as first the gatekeeper bold-facedly told us that it was all booked (not a car nor guest in sight) and then the watchman/cook considered how to make some under the table money by renting us one of the older and under-maintained rooms off the books. Of course he showed me the book which detailed the price for each class of government worker- from a low of 50 rupees (42 to the dollar these days), to a high of Rs 650 for non-government employed Indian national. And the grand price of Rs 1000 for foreign tourists. I should have bargained harder, but we settled on 200 per person. We also bought a dinner to order from him. We passed the evening with a guided stroll along the road with our 17 year old guide, Sunje, and his excellent English. The youngest of three brothers, he is the only one living at home with his mother. His father died when he was five. He said his family had little money, so he would be unable to go to college- which I heard costs about 20 dollars a year for tuition, plus living expenses. I’m sorry we didn’t think to give him 100 bucks for his education. He plans to go to UAE after high school, expecting to work there and be able to support his mother. Besides our walk, we were entertained by a handful of school kids who climbed through a hole in the barbed wire to visit us on the Rest House lawn. They, and the cook and the gatekeeper and Sunje and his best friend whose head was draped across his lap, enjoyed our photos and Alaska postcards and the inflatable globe. Then Bavo, the solo Belgian cyclist who joined us in Shimla, pulled out some paper and markers and they drew us beautiful pictures of landscapes and flowers. We slept well that night, and returned to the same Dhaba for a breakfast of paratha which is a pan-fried pancake/bread with vegetables folded into the dough. We were rolling around 7:30.


Shimla to RampurA 17 kilometer climb the next morning brought us to a bustling crossroad called Narkanda. It was entertaining watching a local woman try to climb the iron steps to the upper chamber of one of the little outdoor temples. Her success was hampered by an aggressive monkey, perched on the landing ledge above. Regrouping after a hasty retreat, she came back for another try, this time with a stick in her hand. She banged the railing as she tried to go up, but again the monkey chased her back down. Third time’s a charm, especially with a rock in hand. The entertainment over, we headed towards the start of an enchanting ride. Flitting back in forth in my mind, I kept flashing between the present reality, and thoughts of northern California as we wound along on a cheerful ribbon of smooth pavement, through virgin pine forests. The deep, needley fragrance was intoxicating, as were the endless switchbacks down. Luckily, I emerged from the dream descent to consider the rims. Chris had taught me, on our first Kyrgyz descent from Gulcho, to stop and check to see if they were hot. I burned my hand. And so began a painfully slow ride, stopping every kilometer to wipe the rims down with a wet cloth. It didn’t help that the thermometer that day was about 108. Sacramento Valley furnace blasting hot. It was a long time getting down. We managed to find a camp site that night, me, Amy and Bavo., just before the village of Nirath. A beautiful eucalyptus grove sheltered us from view and provided a cozy little home above the raging waters of the Sutlej River. The Sutlej starts high in the Tibetan Himalaya, in fact, at Mount Kailash just over the China border. It is a silty glacial river, meaning a restricted supply of fresh water. We made a simple noodle, onion and tomato dish, enjoyed with sweet herbal milk tea and cookies. The only thing we couldn’t escape was the heat. I imagined my cyclist friends Christine and Marlin teasing me for sweltering in the sauna of a nylon tent instead of resting comfortably under the open sky. When the rains came in the night, I felt exonerated, if not well-rested.

Third day and the heat began in earnest. We had set out cycling at 6 am to try to make some distance before it beset us. We succumbed around 1 and spent 3 hours in an upscale hotel restaurant, complete with ceiling fans and A/C. We finally braved the road and reached the medieval village of Rampur. Had we known how great that place would be, we would have left the restaurant sooner. As it was, we passed several hours roaming the tiny alleys and ancient shops. Afternoon sun sliced through the narrow spaces, highlighting mauve and apricot and lavender painted shops. I ended up visiting two different tailors for pant zipper modifications and we finally got going just before early evening. We soon found a perfectly acceptably hotel, as camping was just not an option and it was close to 6 pm. Too bad we were so late, as the next day we discovered the absolutely ideal camp, just 14 kilometers further along the road.

Rampur to Rekong Peo
I told Amy we’d talk about it later. It was not helping for her to keep pointing out how precarious our road was. It’s was a narrow ledge, a gash, barely chipped out of a massive vertical wall of stone. We traversed this sheer face, hanging 2000 feet above the roaring froth, for several hours. Accurate concentration was required: controlling downhill speed, focusing on a clear path through the broken asphalt, being mindful of the often-times eroded edge, avoiding the random, meandering, horned cows, and most of all, listening for traffic. The road was mostly one-lane so the worst case was being the third wheel when two vehicles- mostly busses and trucks, with a few silent, speeding Suzukis - reached the same constricted place at the same time. More than once there was backing up involved. No place for heroics, I found myself dismounting and waiting, curling my toes closer into my sandals at the oversized vehicle snuck past my tensed body. Certainly a day for a helmet, with occasional descent speeds reaching 40 kph. Were ours on?
We’d chosen a destination on the map for our stopping point, keeping to the 50 km per day average that we were aiming for. But as Gary Snyder writes, the map is not the territory. The village of Wangtu was no more than a giant construction site. Signs everywhere bragged about the world’s largest hydro power underground line. I’ve never seen anything on such a massive scale. Hard hats and ear protection were necessary, but neither we, nor the workers had any such thing. The workers lived in clever hovels right alongside the road. Part cave, part rock, stones and sheet metal were arranged to create private spaces which mostly sheltered from the rains and wind. Bathing was done in the open, with men wrapped in saris on their lower half, reaching under the fabric to wash themselves. I never saw women washing. They were mostly seen sitting on the sides of the roads, breaking large stones into gravel, or filling sacks with sand- one working the shovel handle while another assisted in lifting the full scoop by hauling one end of a rope which was tied to the shovel blade itself, often with infant in tow. I wonder if they deliver their infants right their in the work camps. I’ve read that it is mostly the Nepalese who work on road construction. Their country is so poor, that any job with wages, however low, is an improvement over their native home. As there was no stopping on this stretch, we had to keep riding past our daily distance. It was 13 more kilometers with a day’s climb of 3000 feet before we found a place to stay. So far our first and only inhospitable people who charged us full price for the government rest house room. Familiar with the schedule of tariffs, I tried to bargain, but the cheerless man would not budge. It was the least like Himachal Pradesh that we had seen to date. We agreed to the exorbitant price of Rs 1000, but held payment hostage until he delivered the second and third towels and extra mattress- all that I had managed to bargain for. I half-expected to wake to flat tires, but I guess he was too lazy for even revenge.
Our fifth day was the most trying. Dam construction. Dam noise. Damned heat. It was a tiresome 25 kms before we finally turned away from the roar of the raging torrents and the heavy rumble of dump trucks and military vehicles which passed us in steady stream. But things were not better, as the 6 kms before us were a steep switch-backed climb on a one-lane road with speeding cars and struggling busses going up and down with unpredictable frequency. But the worst part of all was the heat. Lip-tingling, mind-numbing heat. The helpful tailwinds turned to furnace blast headwinds with each reversal of direction. I finally broke down to hitch the last two kilometers, but the gravel hauler that came by refused me. Then the worst was over, the grade lessened, trees appeared and apricots fell from the sky. Ok, from the trees. But as we could watch them fall in the wind, we were not afraid, Amy and I, to devour the sweet, juicy nuggets. We let the cows eat the ones which we hadn’t seen fall. Refreshed, we finished our climb, and found our way to the absolutely perfect Fairyland Hotel. Marble mosaic dining room floor in earth tones, lavender colored door frames, and a giant picture window view from the bed, framing the 6050 meter Kinner Kailash peak. Bavo got the room across from us with the terrace. We had a decadent dinner, cooked to order, and enjoyed a wonderful rest. The only sour note to the day was that upon arrival in the center of this village, Rekong Peo, I, so thirsty, but unwilling to drink from the local spigot, removed my cap to soak my overheated head. Unknowingly I stepped on an unseen piece of wet cardboard which was covering the only missing bar on the iron gutter grate, and managed to slip and fall through the the hars, banging my shin and breaking my LCD screen on my camera. So now I have to take pictures the old-fashioned way; shoot through the viewfinder and wait to see what came out. I fear my next slide show may suffer. But there was no open gash on my leg, and I have already determined that the camera still works, so I am grateful. It could have been a lot worse.

Now we are finishing our lovely rest day. A half-cup of dried river silt has been removed from my bike alone. Tuned and oiled and recovered from my 2 day gut attack, we are ready for tomorrow’s departure. We have 30 kilometers to cover before a river crossing that we are advised to make before 10 am, so it should be an early night. Bananas and cookies for breakfast, and a very early start. Jus tone flight to ferry our gear down to the road, and probably a traffic free descent, as we have to retrace the first 7 kms back down to the roaring Sutlej. After that we have to start paying attention to altitude, as in the next 50 kms, we will be above 11000 feet for the first time as we begin our travels up to 3000, 4000 and more than 5500 meters. With treeless heat, grueling switchbacks, conflicting information about landslides, elevations, hotels and campsites, we are certainly on our way into the unknown.

I have to say that so far, I would not recommend this route to anyone. With the lack of camping, the amount of traffic, and the destruction of nature in service of power, it does not compare to any of the other places I’ve previously traveled. On the other hand, the people are truly lovely. Maybe not as hospitable as in Tajikistan, or as interact-able as in Mongolia, or as welcoming as Pakistan, but still, warm and kind and absolutely trustworthy. “They are all believe in God,” says Subhash Chander Mittal, the green grocer that sold me unforgettable golden mangoes yesterday. I stopped by to tell him how good they were. “Forget those mangoes,” he replied. “”Taste these mangoes, and you will forget about those others.” There are four soft, green mangoes wrapped in newspaper, sitting on this computer desk with me as I type. Tonight’s desert.

To Delhi, To Shimla

That Sinking Feeling
Two and a half months of meticulous preparation went into the pre-departure of this new story. But sometimes, you can miss the most obvious.

On June 16th, I heeded my brother's advice, and headed out on the 2:30 p.m. airport bus to Logan Airport for my 6:15 p.m. departure out of Boston. Be really early, just in case there are any problems on the way. The puzzlement I'd suffered for the previous week over time zones and flight durations and arrival times still had me unsettled, so I was once again reviewing my shorthand itinerary. My return flights from Anchorage to Boston, Amy's return flights from Anchorage to Delhi, and my return flights from Delhi to Boston were all carefully condensed onto the back inside corner of my journal. And suddenly I had worked out the math: it never added up because I'd been looking at the departure time for my flight out of Boston back to Anchorage on August 12th. My other departure out of Boston, the one I was on the bus to the airport for, actually left at 9 a.m.- 6 hours ago. I'd missed the plane! As undelievable as it was, it was easily believed by the ticket agent, and I was able to finagle my way to London and then Delhi, arriving just minutes before AMy. Unfortunately, all the jetway stands were full, so we set on the tarmac at Indira Gandhi International Airport until Amy had quite left the terminal on the pre-arranged pick-up, fully expecting to meet me at the hotel, which I had presumably arrived at 12 hours earlier. After a cat and mouse game- when I arrived at the hotel on my own, I found that she'd already left with a driver to go back and get me at the airport, since I had emailed ahead and asked for her pick-up driver to wait and get me too but the message got crossed somewhere. Eventually we were altogether with our tattered bike box and our musty but functional air conditioner running on our 4th floor hotel in the Pahar Ganj area of Delhi.



Delhi
Whatever assault on our senses or sensibilities, none of that happened. We ate street food, had (yogurt) Lassis with ice, pomegrante juice from a common street seller's cup and escaped without the notorious Delhi belly, without beggars beseiging us, without anything more than an occassional whiff of human excrement, urine and garbage. We walked all over town, surivivng the 95+ degree temperatures and 70% humidity. So many last minute errands, a reconnaisance visit to the train station and a delightful cold beer. That was Delhi.
The train was more like Asia. We learned where to go and what to do and arrived at the station at 4:45 a.m. the next morning. It was classic. We had been told the day before that we should check our bikes all the way to the hill station of Shimla, and that the train crew would do the transfer at the connecting station. But this morning there was just a grouchy guy and he only would book the bikes to Kalka. So we registered our bikes just for the first leg and then the guy said to bring them to the shed. He just pointed in a general direction and kept repeating: "the shed." After several exasperated minutes of wandering around, I returned to the man who finally walked me to "the shed" which was just the loading station opposite the registration desk. The confusing thing was that all I was to do was remove the panniers, deliver the bikes to this spot, return to the registration desk to pay the baggage fee, and then return to that spot with the receipt. Why I couldn't pay when I was first at the registration desk was beyond me. Even more, we then had to hand carry all our bags while the train workers wheeled the cycles halfway across the station to our departure platform on the other side. I finally insisted on re-attaching the panniers to let the bikes carry the load, but that was only acceptable when the worker understood that I myself would push the cycle. Evidently he was only paid to carry the freight that was registered.
When we got out of the train in Kalka, about 5 hours to the north, we had to switch to a narrow gauge railway known as the Toy Train. When it became apparent that this train had no baggage car, I clandestinely whisked the bikes into our assigned carriage when no one was looking. I certainly wasn't going to part with them to have them sent tomorrow on the train that did have a baggage car. It was crowded in our little car, but our small set of seats held just us and a delightful Indian family. The man, a Minister of Culture in the Indian government, kindly assisted us in blocking the rear toilet and exit with our cycles and then proceeded to invite us to share his family's home cooked picnic. Not only was it a fantastically delicious hot meal of panner and dahl and chapati and tomato, we each got our own sweet, juicy, messy mango for desert. It seems the true hospitality of these people has only just begun to envelop us, as it has continued for these past few days.

Time's Up
I'd love to write more, but the dear girl who invited us to dinner is waiting patiently outside this Shimla cyber cafe so we have to go. We've enjoyed our 2 days in this Indian tourist destination- look it up on line- the former British summer capital of India. We'll see you next time.

Pre-departure Details

The bright side of all the details, is that eventually you leave, and even if you never got to them, you can finally cross them off the list.

I think it was in November, that I saw an old LP copy of The Indian Himalaya. Just looking. By March, I had bought the ticket. In April, I found a cycling companion. Last Thursday, both bikes got securely snugged into one giant box. This week I'm celebrating my mom's 82nd birthday in Boston and trying to master the manuals of my four newest gadgets: the Nexto Extreme photo storage device, the Sony digital voice recorder, the altimeter/cyclocomputer, and the cheap back-up altimeter watch. And tomorrow, Monday, I'll make my way to the departure lounge for the flight to Delhi. I'll make my own mid-day way to the pre-booked, air-conditioned hotel, and Amy, my new mate, will get a midnight pick-up with the oversized bike box. Humid chaos awaits.