Verbal Incontinence in the Indian Subcontinent

I returned yesterday from Stok Kangri, the highest climbable peak around here. I went with Kate, leaving a hysterical Hanna waiting in Leh, biting her fingernails. We managed about 5000 of the 6150 metres before giving up and heading home. Our party consisted of us, two guides, one 'pony man' and his four donkeys, Wonky, Honky, Tonky and George.

The first day was a leisurely walk up a nice valley, crossing and recrossing the little streams braided along its floor. We were introduced to one of our guides, Namgyal at the beginning. He looked about 15 and had an unmistakable aura of incompetence. He spent the whole trip saying, "So sorry," both for nothings like not helping me do up my jacket and for things like almost pulling me down a steep snow slope. Kate and I were alone on the first part of the walk, having been told to keep walking up the valley until we weren't sure where to go. Eventually, the donkey man and Namgyal rejoined us.

I thought I would really like the donkeys. They are much smaller than European ones, and have big, brown, sad eyes. They carry a hell of a lot of stuff without any apparent discomfort. That is, except for George, possibly the dumbest ass ever. All of them encountered donkey man's stick from time to time, but none so much as George. While the other three stuck together, George was a maverick, forging new paths that led nowhere, stopping every two steps to nibble at something or simply sitting down. Whenever he gave up like this, Meme (donkey dude), Namgyal and Jamba, the other guide, would lay into the poor kid. Kicks to the arse, head and sides plus beatings from sticks and axes and a lot of tail-pulling had no effect on this little trooper, who would only get up when he felt like it. At first, this was all quite disturbing, but watching George's sprightly progress and realising that he was not any older, weaker, sicker or more loaded than the others led to the conclusion that he was simply an idle bastard. The patter of blows against his hide was the only effective way to get his lazy ass up the mountain. The other donkeys were much more sensible, but rubbish pets. They show no appreciation for affection or even for food you give them. They simply do what they do, eat, sleep and occasionally buckaroo.

The donkey man, on the other hand was brilliant. Somwhere between 60 and 160, his creased head sat on top of a frame concealed by a huge dark cloak out of which he would pull donkey food, cookies, prayer wheels and other assorted necessities. His hands were big and grey from the dust and dryness. The only English I heard him utter was "Soup, good!" Otherwise, his communication with us was restricted to the all-purpose Ladakhi word, 'julay', meaning hello, goodbye, please and thank-you. He would scream it over and over again whenever we acknowledged him, with a huge grin and clapping us on the shoulders with those massive paws.

As we were chilling at first camp, we saw our second guide coming up the valley. With one arm on his bedroll, slung behind his head, he pimp-rolled his way confidently along the rocks on the valley floor. When he got there, he took off his woolly hat to reveal greasy, slicked back curtains, which along with his baggy trousers and ghetto gait marked him out as every inch a Harrow rudeboy lost in Ladakh. He turned out to be quite competent though, and much more reassuring than the bumbling, chain-smoking Namgyal.

The second day's walk was only about three hours, but we gained a lot of altitude. We hit our first ice, packed over rivers you could hear flowing underneath. We had to tread carefully, and Kate did drop a leg through a thin patch, but on the whole it was OK. We had to hack away at the thinner sections with axes to make it safe for the donkeys following, as they weren't so bright. The thin air made even preparing a bed exhausting work, so we spent most of the afternoon reading and lying around. The night was spent sleeplessly. It was around fifteen degrees below zero, and the sleeping bag the agency had provided for me had no zip. Luckily, I had brought my own, slightly thinner affair (thank you, Europa), but still, the cold and excitement and altitude meant that I spent a good few hours thinking about everything from our 2.30am scheduled start, to going home, to random memories I hadn't thought of for years and can't remember now.

They roused us later than expected, possibly because they had forgotten their alarm clock and had borrowed my analogue watch. I was shattered, and the salt tea helped only a little. As we set off, the sky was brilliantly clear. The moon relfected off the white peaks, there were stars everywhere and the Milky Way was a distinct silvery stripe from north to south. The first part of the trek was a long, slow slog up a gravelly slope. I felt like an old man, gasping for each breath, muscles aching and leaning on my axe for support. The guides went way too fast at first, and I had to doggedly stick to my chosen pace of one step per second to slow them down. Apparently they thought that because we had done the first two days so quickly, we'd be OK. The difference from my point of view was that we were 1000m higher, I'd not slept, it was -15 degrees and 4am. We popped over the other side of the ridge and stopped for a breather. Kate and I decided that we were not going to make it to the summit when our guides told us we were 10% of the way there. They later revised this to 20% but I couldn't feel my toes or fingers, and I knew it was only a matter of time before we gave up.
The next phase was utterly exhausting. We weren't gaining much altitude, but we had to traverse a 45 degree slope covered in snow. The guides had forgotten to put on our crampons and it was fucking difficult. Jamba went first, then Kate, me and Namgyal at the rear. We all slipped a few times except Jamba, and we had to ram our axes into the ice to stop ourselves from falling. A couple of times, Namgyal grabbed me. I couldn't tell who this was supposed to help, him or me. Either way, both times he did, I almost fell and this set up a deep loathing in me for this stupid little fuck that lasted until we were safely back down.

Eventually, we made it across and rested on a rocky patch while we put on our crampons. The sun was coming up, and our guides started cursing. They told us we should have been on the summit by now, as the ice would become unstable for our descent. We decided to carry on until we reached the second base camp, and set off across more snow. It was much easier with crampons on, but it still took ages and the rising sun was turning all the clothes I had on into a sauna. When they told us there was a 'hidden glacier' before second base camp, I decided I wasn't going any further. I didn't feel safe with Namgyal around, I couldn't feel my feet and I was already doubting my ability to get back from there. I felt like a wuss, but Kate was ready to head back as well, and off we went.

The walk down was much easier, and as soon as the sun was fully up, I began to regret turning back, but I'm glad we did. After an hour's sleep, we made it all the way back to Stok village and got a taxi back to Leh. As we watched the clouds move in around Stok Kangri, I imagined spending another night in a tent buffeted by wind and soaked through from rain and snow and was very grateful for the shower and the surprised Hanna that awaited us. As soon as I got some proper food in me, the whole trip began to seem like a dream.

As I wrote this, I was sitting on a mountainside in the Ladakhi desert waiting for the army to drag an overturned truck out of the way sufficient to allow 30 of their trucks to pass and re-open the Srinagar-Leh highway.

Things seem to be moving, but each army truck's progress around the obstacle is pretty hairy. We are showered with exhaust as they pass. The Ladakhis and Indians who are with us are in remarkably good cheer, squatting on the crumbling ground and grinning.

Our journey here from Srinagar was pretty silly. We took a bus to Sonamarg, the 'valley of gold', with loads of Indian tourists from Haryana and Jammu. We got there in time to get a room and walk up to the glacier before sunset and chat to some friendly army chaps. Our 'hotelier' was a shopkeeper who often gave up his own bedroom for tourists. No furniture at all, just mats on the floor. Fayaz, our host, assured us that the bus to Kargil would not leave until 2pm or thereabouts. When we got there, they were all gone, and he simply assured us, 'Oh, well, I suppose you'll have to stay another night. Along with all the traders who try to rip you off in Srinagar and the restaurant which served vegetarian Kate meat in her potatoes, he put our opinion of Kashmiri honesty at a low.

Keen to get out of there, our only option was to hitch a ride with some truckers. We began with a traffic cop travelling with us. A nice chap, he told the army we were coming to visit his family as a way of getting around the usual demands for baksheesh. Our driver was very keen to feel Hannah up at every available opportunity and the journey was quite tense. Kate was let off such attentions, possibly because in the words of our policeman, she had a 'boring face, and face is index to the soul'. There were many checkpoints, but few problems. At one, we met Jagpal Singh, a young army officer who sat at a pass wearing his Raybans and checked passports. Like so many, his dream was to marry a foreign woman, and we waved goodbye to him, sitting on his plastic chair, waiting for his wife to come along. After dark, the driver would tell us to duck, but this was just to make things easier rather than any illegality. Still, it was all quite exciting and we felt like refugees, particularly when a Ladakhi family joined us in the tiny cabin and the baby shat its pants on entry.

We reached Kargil late and crashed out without dinner. I later found out that we were less than five miles from the border with Pak. The town had actually been invaded in 1999, and it's all still pretty tanked-up around there. The Lonely Planet still warns of occasional shelling along the road, but since the start of peace talks, it's all been fine and groovy. An early start the next morning looked to be useless as buses left for Leh around 4am. We were about to despair when out of nowhere came a young rudeboy blasting hip-hop from his hunnywagon. He offered a stupidly low price, and we jumped on it. A knight in shining armour indeed. He picked up two passengers and we set off, screaming across the desert to a horrible soundtrack of J-Lo, Sisquo, Capella and Culture Beat. Mile after mile of barren valleys, surrounded by the Zanskar range of the Himalayas, with no villages, goatherds or anything to break it up, we felt like we were crossing Mars. When Leh finally loomed out of the desert, we had to go through scores of army camps before we hit the actual city, tiny in comparison.

Tired, hungry, smelly and deaf, we rolled into my home for the rest of the trip. Only two weeks left to go, now, and I'm really looking forward to coming home. I'm still loving it here, and Ladakh seems great, but when a town runs out of mineral water, pepsi and beer because the road was closed, it turns one's mind to the delights that London has to offer. Including cheap internet. Gotta go. Bo!

Sorry if I repeat myself a bit in this entry. Internet is extortionate here in Ladakh, and so I'm writing this all offline with no regard for continuity or interest. The same excuse goes for all of you who have not got a reply to your emails. Looking back, the houseboat was very odd. It was in a fairly shite state of repair, with holes in the floor here and there, dodgy electrics and fragile beds. The furnishing was quite tacky, sort of 1970s coucnil flat with a few plastic flowers to brighten it up. Nonetheless, it had a whiff of faded glory about it, possibly rubbed off from the Himalayas and wafted across the lake by the wailing imams. It must have been a very different place in the 1980s, before the troubles, when there was a constant flow of tourists and money for repairs. Lala, the owner, is a beautiful man, but he cuts a rather sad figure as he shuffles about the cabin. When you mention his name around town, you can tell he is respected. Asif, the McLeodganj jeweller who put me in touch with Lala, referred to him as 'an educated man' and he is a former government official. He talks sometimes at great length, but more often his age shows, and he wanders distractedly about, his long, beakish nose dragging him along. Still, he and his nephew Bilal are true to their five-year old description in the visitor's book as 'men of honour'. It feels like being in the French outpost in Apocalypse Now, but without seductive divorcees wandering about.

And with water! Such clear water you can watch your bait get attacked by swarms of fish. And snowy peaks positioned just so the sun sets perfectly in the dip. Reeds so thick they form floating gardens, where the reddest tomatoes and sweetest onions grow. Shikaras (little boats) like floating beds that hold three comfortably, others laden low with veg. Kingfishers preening themselves in the sun, with no apparent interest in the hunt, then hovering and flashing down to return with squirming prey. A thousand varieties of water and song bird layered onto the frogs and crickets. No comfortable bed, but a rickety wooden roof with a ceiling of stars.

SO I'm in Kashmir. We're staying on a houseboat just outside Srinagar, on an amazingly peaceful lake. Ryan, or Tex as he prefers to be known was the sight that greeted us as we stepped into the houseboat. He wanders around the boat only wearing jeans and constantly smoking weed. He went travelling for two months last summer, lived with his parents fo a while, went back travelling and consequently 'doesn't really have a home, man'. He's moved all over Texas, though. Fool. Later, Kate, Hannah, Tex and his Israeli girlfriend, Shove-it, joined me on the roof. There was tinny Western music coming from some speakers and Tex lay around smoking and talking shit. It really felt like something out of Vietnam, as the quiet boats laden with veg and random crops paddled past. Tex played the role of random too-young stoned American grunt perfectly, and I fully expected a volley of fire from the gooks hidden in the reeds.

Normally, though, it's quiet as hell. Eagles circle above, kingfishers hunt, dragonflies hover and frogs do their funky frog thing. We have our own shikara which we can use, and after a little bit of practice, it's almost like punting. I really want to go out and do things, but having our own boat just means we sit around all day, read , play backgammon and do other holiday type things. So that's pretty much what we do. Last night I slept on the roof of the boat, under the stars, and it was quite, quite lush. I'm off back to the houseboat. I may be there a little while.

I'm leaving Dharamsala tomorrow, and it's hard to think how to sum up this place. I've made some friends, Tibetan, Indian and traveller, got involved in a minor way, and there hasn't been a moment since I got here that I've been bored.

I just returned from Dhorgay's place, where I and the two English girls I've been hanging around with were invited for dinner. Dhorgay and I made momos, which are Tibetan dumplings, and the girls brought cake and good cheer. His English is still quite ropey, but we have somehow become quite good friends. Perhaps I didn't teach him all that much language, but he's much more confident using it now, and I introduced him to beer and raves, and tried to teach him how to chat up Western women. In return, he's shown me many things I would otherwise not have seen, and made me feel somehow at home in McLeodganj. It is very easy to feel that way here. Although it's quite a large place, there are only so many places, and after only a week, I can walk down the street and be greeted by a couple of people, not all of them connected with the tourist industry, which is nice.

The thing that has stunned me most is how much I (along with every other tourist) love Tibetan people. Of course, I don't know many, and it's very easy to fall in love with a culture from outside, and travellers are full of this shit, but bear with me. From what I have seen, there is just a happiness that surrounds them, even when they are angry or sad, that will not dissipate. They can go from an impassioned discussion of the human rights of some of the most respected religious figures in Tibet being violated quite horrifically to laughing helplessly at a stupid dog. Even the Dalai Lama cracks up in interviews about Buddhist philosophy.

And Buddhism! How cool is that? I have had discussions, heard lectures, watched films about Buddhist beliefs, and I have come so close to being utterly sold. The morality is just so obviously a good thing it's not even worth discussing, but even the dodgy metaphysical stuff about reincarnation and the wheel of suffering has not sparked my rationalist ire. When I hear accounts of the miracles surrounding various Buddhas, or the amazing events that prove that y is the new incarnation of x, I do not rubbish them, but listen carefully and wonder whether it might not be true. I'm sure that this is mainly because the people and the non-violence and the Dalai Lama and the prayer flags and the monks are all just so lovely that the belief system behind them demands respect. I'm not aware of a single bad thing that Tibetan Buddhism has ever led to, whereas I give Christians, Hindus, Muslims and Jews short shrift regarding their beliefs because they lead to so much bad shit.

And the politics. There are about six million Tibetans in total, about 100,000 of whom are in exile. China is carrying out some horrific things in Tibet. There are stories of torture that would make US troops blush, religious oppression and Stalinist population movements of Chinese to make Tibetan people a minority in Tibet.
The individual incident that struck me most is the case of the Panchen Lama. Traditionally the second highest Lama in TIbet after Dalai, the latest reincarnation was officially recognised in 1995. Six days later, the Chinese government took him into custody 'for his own protection'. This was after an incongruous attempt to recognise Tibetan religious beliefs by promoting their own candidate. Since then no foreign government or international organisation has been allowed to see him or his family, as they 'do not wish to be disturbed'. The boy was six years old when he disappeared. The problem is that the Panchen lama and the Dalai lama traditionally take it in turns to tutor each other, the elderly reincarnation of one leading the young emanation of the other through his monastic training and then swapping places at death. When the Dalai Lama is too young, the Panchen Lama becomes the senior religious figure in Tibetan Buddhism. The present incarnation of the Dalai Lama is in his late sixties. Panchen is fifteen. He has presumably had no religious training whatsoever and probably plenty of Communist brainwashing. If the Chinese government ever release him, he will be totally unfit to lead his people, and to teach the next Dalai Lama. Of course, either problem is surmountable, but not without great disruption to a centuries-old religious tradition which still commands the loyalty of most Tibetans.

This may not be as horrific as some of the things that political prisoners in Tibet, half of whom are monks or nuns, undergo, nor as plainly demonstrative as the figure of one million Tibetans who have died from starvation, suicide, torture or execution since the Chinese invasion. But it has the potential to destroy the culture that is being faithfully preserved in exile even as the Chinese government go about destroying it within their borders.

There are many more things to be said, but bed beckons. Tomorrow I go to Srinagar, capital of Kashmir. I will be very sad to leave, but I know I'll be back here some day.

I have broken my yoga routine already. Last night was the full moon and there was also a lunar eclipse. I had found this nice little cafe out in the woods where there would be a campfire, guitars and singalongs, and I was really looking forward to it. These two English girls I've been with the last few days came along, as did my new Tibetan conversation partner, Dhorgay. He was a monk until seven months ago, and is still sweet and innocent as a new-born pup. I have been trying to teach him to chat up loose western women (don't know why I should be an authority on this) and peddle cod Buddhism to gullible American teenagers, but not too successfully. Anyway, on the way to my nice little chilled out cafe, we took the wrong path. It was dark, but the moon provided a fair bit of light. We ended up following this baba who was really drunk and I had to keep stopping him from falling off the mountain. (It turned out he was the same baba I had played chess with when I was here last, but his addled mind remembered nothing .) He eventually led us up a horrible slate path to the big full moon party on top of the ridge.

There was banging trance and even some london beats, and everyone was dancing, well, like hippies. Dhorgay was stunned, but took straight to the dance floor and was raving most of the evening. That made me glad. There were loads of Indian men from the towns around Dharamshala who had come up for the weekend, and were really happy to be at a 'real party'. There were 40 year-old accountants really giving it some on the floor, tucked-in shirts, shiny shoes and all.

The plan had been to go to the little cafe, watch the eclipse and toddle home, but the climb up to the new venue had been hairy enough and we decided we'd sleep there and leave at first light. We all huddled together against the cold, and watched the earth's shadow slide over the moon. As it went, the outline of the area under shadow was still visible, and the curved boundary between light and dark meant that the moon really did look like a ball, not a flat object. As the shadow grew larger, it took on a red tinge, until the whole moon just looked like Mars. The seas and mountain ranges on the surface looked like an eye, as though someone were peering out through a neat hole in the firmament. Just as the eclipse reached the fullest point, a green shooting star zipped across just above it. It was pretty much perfect.

After a while, it became clear we weren't going to sleep on the cold mountain, and we waited for the moon to become clear again before making our way down. We got back at 6.30 in the morning, feeling remarkably fresh - dancing all night without drinking a drop is really quite a lovely experience. But when my alarm went at 8.30, the freshness had died and yoga was out of the question.

Posted by: Nik / 2:12 PM

And here I am in McLeodganj again. It felt brilliant to be back. I met two droll English girls and a French-German cartoon man on the train and it's all going well. The vibe is the same as before, which is a very good thing. I've only been here for a couple of days, but already it feels almost like home. Highlights have included: my first yoga class this morning, which turned out to be not beginner yoga, but beginner ashtanga, which is apparently super-yoga. Everyone there was bendy as hell, apart from me, and I hauled my creaking frame out just before the end so as not to have to face these freakish people. I feel excellent, though, and I'm going back tomorrow for more pain. Hurrah! Also, learning all about how evil the Chinese are. We saw a film last night about how the CIA supported the Tibetan resistance for ages and then when Nixon decided China was his mate, withdrew that very day. Lots of old Tibetan men here presumably fought at the time. We had seen one that morning, charging about the main square aggressively, doing martial arts postures at people and shouting, "China! Grr... Amrica! Grr..." He was mental, and perhaps now I know why.

I'm going to stay here for a couple of weeks, doing courses and stuff, but mainly not doing much. Hurrah!

I thought I'd better rewrite Rishikesh with a bit of distance. It's known as the home of yoga and it's meant to be a very holy place, where five rivers meet etc etc. I wanted to see it, but really, it wasn't my thing at all. There were loads of proper backpacker dreadlocks beads chakra types clogging the streets and everyone was doing yoga courses, ayurveda, blah blah blah. I have nothing against yoga, as a later entry wil confirm, but I have little time for lost people who come to india for a year, subscribe undiscerningly to the whole hindu caboodle, and then fuck off back home to become lawyers, or something. Part of my dislike for the place was obviously down to my suddenly becoming an antisocial twat. Conversations would start, but I just couldn't be bothered to do anything to keep them going, probably because I had decided alread that everyone was stupid. So I was quite lonely, yet refused to do the obvious thing and go talk to someone. I did have fun on my own, though. I went swimming in the Ganga, which was lovely and green and clean, if a little cold. Then I bought a yoga book and went through various positions in my room with no idea if I was doing it right, but still at the end of the evening, I felt pretty damned fine. On my last day, I almost changed my mind about leaving. I actually met someone who wasn't utterly tedious, and we went off to the ashram where the Beatles had stayed while they were there. Now deserted and overgrown, it was quite bizarre. Most of the buildings are round, about four metres in diameter, with a basic, round room and toilet on the ground floor. The second floor is a concrete dome about seven feet high inside which you can sit and chant mantras. They vibrate and wobble very pleasingly around your head. So that was quite fun, but not enough to keep me in Rishikesh. Off I toddled to Dharamshala.

Actually, my title is misleading. Delhi was extremely nice. Seeing Liv again rocked, as did meeting up with Pratap, his parents and his friend Jimmy, Liv's friends Kriti and Gagan, as well as Peter and Debby, who were in town for a couple of days. I got myself two suits fitted and roamed around most happily. The last night, though, was spent sleeplessly, fighting off mosquitos and whatnot, and the six o'clock start to Rishikesh was pretty difficult. So when I arrived, I spent the day wandering around, not responding to anything in particular, and feeling lonely for the first time this trip. Even when travelling alone, I've met people within a couple of hours, but not here. This was mostly due to me being tired and useless, but also because of this place. There is almost nothing to do and see in a normal touristy sense here. The town is mostly made up of ashrams and almost everyone who comes here does a course in yoga or scriptures or something, as this is the 'home of yoga'. So all the conversations I've been half a part of (by sitting at the same table and pretending to read my book) have been about chakras, meditation and yoga teachers.

I almost caved in by setting my alarm for 6am this morning, intending to go and see a yogi who would teach me stuff. Instead, I got an excellent night's sleep, went on some long walks, and read a lot. At the moment, it's 'Jesus Lived In India', a fairly famous book on the backpacker trail. While of course it makes a lot of assumptions because there really is no evidence either way, it's pretty interesting on the links between Buddhism and early Christianity, which don't require any wild re-imagining of history. At any rate, the author reckons Jesus' tomb is in Srinagar, in Kashmir, so I'll go visit that and report any vibes I get.

Other news, I went swimming properly in the Ganga up here, which was absolutely beautiful. I had forgotten how nice swimming in rivers can be, especially holy ones, I suppose. After my swim, I tried out some of the yoga positions in my book, fell over a few times, and am now feeling perfect. The start of a new life, perhaps. It's not enough to make me stay with all these fuzzy-thinking fools, though. I'm off back to Dharamshala tomorrow, there to make my home for a while. Hurrah!