welcome to Gorkhaland

The strike hit Darjeeling like a bad storm, shutting everything down and I had made it just in time. I knew that if I had arrived a few hours later I would not have found a room to rent. My landlord, though he allowed me to book in, obviously wanted me to either hide out in my room or leave. All the doors in Darjeeling, even the residential ones, were bolted shut. There was no way to get any food, water, internet or transport out of Darjeeling. I couldn’t even make a call. The day before I arrived in Darjeeling I had spent the last of my Delhi-airtime to phone my father on his 70^th birthday (we got cut off just as we were both getting a little teary) and I decided that I would phone him again once I got to Darjeeling. I had given some money to Shallu and she topped me up whenever I needed airtime but now I couldn’t get a message to her and I realized that I was completely cut off. The worst was that during this strike Shallu’s birthday had come and gone and it broke my heart to know she was thinking that I had forgotten.

This strike was very different to the strikes I had witnessed in South Africa. There was no singing or dancing in the streets with the protestors noisily making their demands known. This was a passive but powerful rebellion. Luckily I did, on my first visit to Darjeeling, ask loads of questions and learnt enough about the political situation or I would have been thoroughly confused.

This is the story of the Gorkhas:

The Gorkhas were soldiers recruited from Nepal to join the English army. They were known as the ‘Gorkha Division’ and were recruited because they were exceptionally skilled soldiers. Their families also left Nepal and settled in Darjeeling which forms part of the West Bengal state and as I understand it, the Gorkhas feel that the West Bengal government have been oppressing them for 200 years and that they want to be an independent state and rename Darjeeling, Gorkhaland. I remember thinking at the time that I was all for their cause but that ‘Gorkhaland’ was a horrible name for such a beautiful place. Obviously the West Bengal government doesn’t want to lose Darjeeling because the tea industry is extremely profitable. But the Gorkhas were, clearly, not giving up and with our first visit, when the jeep dropped us in Darjeeling, we were at first lost because on every door was painted ‘Gorkhaland’ and on every available surface ‘welcome to Gorkhaland’. I even considered demanding that our driver take us all the way to Darjeeling and not just drop us in Gorkhaland.

But it was a different Darjeeling now and the atmosphere on the street was heavy and I could literally feel the tension. I managed to find a hotel owner who was willing to give me a bed without demanding that I stay indoors. He was not afraid of getting into trouble with the Gorkhas and answered all my strike-related questions. Whatever sympathy I felt for the Gorkhas and their cause disappeared. This was no democracy and if you didn’t close your door for the strike you would be forced or intimidated into doing so.

I was grateful to my brave landlord but was still hoping to find some food and spent hours stealthily skulking around the market hoping to find a shopkeeper who was brave enough to sell me something to eat but I was out of luck. This involuntary fast lasted for 3 days and I wasn’t exactly starving but I was very, very hungry. On day 2 of the strike the police opened up a ‘help-line’ to help whoever wanted to leave, get out of Darjeeling but I stubbornly refused to leave with such a bad memory of this place so I declined the line and stayed. Besides, I hadn’t bought Darjeeling tea for all my loved ones and I still hadn’t seen Mount Everest (they say on a clear day you can actually see it) and I wanted to leave still loving Darjeeling, so I stayed. The only other person in my hotel, besides the landlord and his wife, was William Chase.

William was a young fine arts student from London but his passion was politics and the environment. He was convinced that raising awareness about climate change was not the solution anymore and that we needed to start putting bullets into the people making all the bad decisions. I smiled a frozen smile but decided that, in his defense, he was probably also just hungry and was saying things he didn’t mean. The next morning though, he told me that he had finished off the last of his supply of biscuits and chocolates the night before and was complaining of having a ‘junk food hangover’. Another frozen smile spread across my face, I had no sympathy for him. But that morning I discovered that the strike was over and the shops open.

I forced myself to walk (I wanted to run) down to the market and forced myself to send messages to my family first before I got something to eat. There was an e-mail from Erez. He had heard about the strike (apparently the Gorkha leader was killed in Silliguri, just 50km from Darjeeling) and he wanted to know if I were ok. I’m fine, I told him, just hungry but secretly I was very relieved that it was over and I didn’t starve.

After I sent a couple of e-mails I had breakfast, glorious breakfast. Darjeeling had turned into a candy store and I was a kid with a pocket full of rupees to spend. Just as I was about to take my first bite I remembered that scene in ‘Gone with the Wind’ where Vivian Leigh, says: ‘as God is my witness, I shall never go hungry again!’. Amen, sister. Amen.

day 82

For ten days, Erez, the brave photographer from Judea, was my constant companion. My limit for wanting companionship was about 4 days. After that I needed some time on my own. What can I say, I was a lone-rider long before I rode a motorbike solo through India. Erez seemed to sense this and always disappeared for a few hours just before I was getting a little smothered. He did this, I suspect, for my benefit only and I was grateful.

We spent the first few days, of our 10 days together, in Darjeeling and went for walks, talking, taking pictures and stopping occasionally for a chai or a plate of momos (filled dumplings, delicious). It rained constantly (typical for Darjeeling, Monsoon or not) which limited our explorations but I loved Darjeeling. Erez and I were both planning to travel to Sikkim, a tiny little state just North of Darjeeling and decided to stick together.

Sikkim is a small state, part of India but independent from her and we needed a permit to enter. From here we would be surrounded by 3 borders, all just a few kilometers away, Nepal, China and Butan. This we could see in the people (most were either Nepali or Tibetan) and Erez and I indulged in all the Chinese food that was suddenly available on every menu.

Sikkim’s beautiful little place, almost tropical and was very different to the India I’d gotten to know. There was something strange about Sikkim though and for the first few days I couldn’t put my finger on why but then it was obvious and we noticed it everywhere. In Sikkim the people are tiny and everything oddly proportioned. Erez and I were giants compared to the Sikkimese folk and we kept having to squeeze ourselves into the kiddie-sized chairs and had to stoop every time we entered a room. We both bumped our heads enough times that it started to not be funny anymore. The capital of Sikkim, Gangtok, was especially strange. Taxi drivers looked like children and even the taxis themselves looked smaller than normal, almost like toy cars. Another thing I noticed in Gangtok was that all (well, most) of the shops were meat shops, liquor stores, sweet shops or pharmacies (I’m no genius but I can connect a few dots). Having said that, Sikkimese rum is organic, cheap and tastes like honey and we drank lots of it.

After 3 days of exploring Sikkim, without a proper map, Erez and I started bumping heads against each other (not just doorways) and we were frustrated, irritated and suffocated by one another. We enjoyed travelling together and obviously had a good vibe (Erez calls this vibe ‘the Mooza’) but we were now walking and talking on egg-shells around each other. The Mooza, it seemed, had run dry. We made a decision, Erez would continue exploring Sikkim and I would return to my beloved Darjeeling and should we decide to meet up again later, we would. Though we both agreed that it was a good idea, we didn’t want to part on uneasy terms and that’s when we decided to make a movie of our 10 days together before splitting.

Suddenly we were on that same page again, the Mooza (and the rum) flowing. We discovered that we had some incredible photos and reminisced and marveled at each one as we chose which to use. Then we watched our movie over and over again, falling in love with it a little more each time we saw it. The next day Erez left for Rabong and I caught a shared jeep back to Darjeeling.

The plan was to spend some time in Darjeeling, maybe 2 weeks. I wanted to enjoy the tranquility and beauty for as long as I could and the idea was to find a room to rent somewhere among the tea plantations that would hopefully have a little kitchen I could use. It had been almost 3 months since I’d cooked anything and I was beginning to miss it terribly. Also, I wanted to eat some fresh and healthy meals (taking it easy on the momos for a while) and finally put my orange Reeboks to use. I craved fresh fruit and going for a run and Darjeeling was the perfect place to indulge in both.

The jeep-ride to Darjeeling was 5 hours long and terrifying. Once we were on the road I noticed the driver staring at me in his rear-view. I smiled but realized instantly that that was a mistake. Suddenly the driver couldn’t take his eyes off me. Now, I don’t mind being stared at anymore but this guy was driving a vehicle while staring. The jeep started swaying on the road and I gave him a serious frown and pointed to the road, hoping the message would be clear. It was not and the driver was delighted that I was trying to communicate with him. The road was getting winding and the situation was getting critical, life-threatening even. I wanted to shout at him ‘keep your eyes on the road before you drive off a cliff and kill us all!’ but I had a feeling it would make things worse so I forced myself to stare out the window instead. After a while the jeep stabilized and for the next 5 hours I avoided eye-contact with the driver at all costs. I arrived safely in Darjeeling late that night and booked into a cheap little hotel right at the top of the hill. It felt good to be back and I couldn’t wait to start my 2 weeks of Darjeeling-bliss but things would turn out very differently to what I had in mind. The next morning I woke up and discovered that Darjeeling had turned into a ghost town. It was a strike.

play me

the Rajdhani Express

In Delhi, after catching up with everyone, happy and healthy, I started planning my next adventure. A definite advantage of travelling alone is that you can change your mind as often as you like without annoying anyone. I considered Rajasthan (in the desert) or Varanasi but it was still summer in India and even though the country was cooling down a bit those parts were still scorching. I wanted to spend some more time in the cooler hill stations, surrounded by mountains so I decided to go to Darjeeling next. I got my train ticket and then went through the hell-ish process of trying to get my bike booked onto the Rajdhani Express as well. I discovered that I would have to pay 3 different amounts to 3 different people but only one amount was ‘official’. Full scale corruption finally reared its ugly head. No-one wanted to give us a straight answer and after an hour of useless negotiation a good Samaritan, who had been watching us, came over and told us that the train to Darjeeling only stops for 5 minutes and it would be impossible for my bike to be off-loaded because there was simply not enough time and there would be nobody to off-load it. I felt like hitting someone. Don’t they know that I’m a near-broke traveler and they’re sabotaging my journey. These people knew that what I wanted was impossible but they were willing to charge me 3 times the normal price without sharing this important information with me. The injustice of it made me furious. There had to be a way, I told myself. There had to be! My mind was frantic as I was working through every option and obstacle trying to find a solution but then I had a moment of clarity and realized that I was stubbornly refusing to give up, a habit I adopted during my travels up North. There my attitude was to never give up, to endure and persevere and I knew that if I didn’t have that mind-set then, I would never have made it but it was suddenly clear that I would have to stop fighting and submit.

The Yamaha would have to stay behind for this adventure. At that the trip to Darjeeling took on a whole new dimension and I knew that extraordinary things would happen but I had to relax and let it happen.

A few days later it was time to leave and I made it to the train station in New Delhi just in time. On the platform I was looking around frantically for my coach knowing that the train only stops for 5 minutes. Through the sea of faces I saw the only other foreigner and before I could even signal to him he was already running over to me. We had less than 5 minutes to find our coaches and get on board and the platform was packed.

We ran along the train, quickly exchanged our names and nationality and peered into the different coaches until I finally found mine and got on. My companion still had to find his coach and had less than a minute to do so. We quickly promised to meet up later and officially introduce ourselves. I sat down and from my window I saw him running past me, like a headless chicken, still searching for his coach and then the train was moving and we were leaving Delhi.

I was still catching my breath and wondering if he had made it when my fellow foreigner was suddenly standing next to me and asked if he could sit down. Sure. His name was Erez and he was from Israel. We chuckled as we shook hands, both still out of breath. My coach was one class higher than his (Shallu had insisted) which just meant that I was sharing a compartment with 5 people instead of 7.

Erez and I spent the next 8 hours of the 21-hour trip having our meals together and some of the greatest conversations ever. He’d travelled in India before, 6 years ago, after his mandatory military service and was now studying engineering back in Israel.

I was very curious about the Israeli army and Erez was very kind in patiently answering all my ridiculous questions. It was clear that his military service had added significantly to the depth of his character and I loved listening to his perspective on things that I had always taken for granted or never even thought about. It was easy for me to make fun of our president and his 5 wives and 23 children, without really getting involved but for Erez politics were a part of his life whether he liked it or not. He was not a typical soldier but living in the Middle East meant that you had no choice; even Israeli girls had to do 2 years of military service when they turn 18.

Erez had been a tank operator in the army so naturally I had many tank-related questions and again he answered them all. We talked about the conflict in the Middle East, Indian food, travelling by train, electricity, Nepal and the Theory of Relativity. Later that night Erez was looking at a map of India when suddenly he looked at me and said ‘I have a crazy idea’. In that moment I knew we were going to be great friends.

a brand new Delhi

Delhi had cooled down, since I left, thanks to the Monsoon and it was a different city. For the first few days though I felt strangely out of place (more than usual). I felt like Leonardo Decaprio’s character in the movie The Beach when he goes back unto the mainland, full of tourists, and cringes at being back in civilization. I was also convinced that I was being stared at more than usual but then I took a long hard look at myself in the mirror and understood why people were staring. Six weeks on a motorbike, Indian food, zero exercise, the harsh Himalayan sun, mild dehydration and severe helmet-hair had taken a heavy toll and I looked haggard.

Later that day Shallu and I were having Kangpow Chicken at a Chinese restaurant when I caught another painful glance at myself in a mirror and I asked her if I looked bad, hoping that she might lie and say something nice but she hesitated (only for a second) and said ‘..Not really’ and we both knew the truth. I looked like crap and Shallu had been nice (and brave) enough to tell me the truth. In that moment, though I felt like crying, I realized that in Shallu, I had found a true friend.

Shallu was one of my reasons for loving this city and when I first got back to Delhi and was feeling a little lost she was a great friend to me. One of my favorite things to do in Delhi is weave through the city traffic with Shallu riding shotgun. She navigates and I ride. I turn left when she says left and right when she says right. We also have the best conversations while we’re riding or at least I think we do because the helmet muffles my hearing and Delhi is a noisy city.

Apart from enjoying my friendship with Shallu I also took another pained look at myself and decided I needed to give myself some real care and set operation ‘extreme make-over’ into action. I gave myself a haircut (Shallu almost begged me to go to a professional), gave my skin a high dose of vitamin E, drastically upped my water intake, ate loads of mangoes (they are in season in India and makes me very happy), forced myself to sleep at least 8 hours a day and dug out the two bottles of vitamins my mother had made sure I packed. The next morning I woke up and was devastated that I wasn’t already looking healthy and restored and wasn’t glowing. After a few days though I did start looking and feeling better and made a promise to take better care. I may be riding a bike but that’s no excuse to look like a biker.

sanctuary, please

By now I had had enough solitude and was already having imaginary reunions with the people I met in Delhi) and I wanted to get back soon to surprise Shallu. I was determined to ride hard and not linger at each place as I did before. I studied my map and devised a route that, looking back now, was a little ambitious, if not impossible. I hit the road early the next day and rode until the sun was setting and then realized that I was at least another 40km away from the nearest town and that meant that I was nowhere near a hotel either. One of my non-negotiable rules, one that I hadn’t yet broken, was to never ride at night. Breaking, even bending, this rule was too dangerous and irresponsible but I had no idea where I was and stopping would also be risky. I thought about it for a second and it was clear that I had no choice but to get off the road. At least I had a tent.

It was dark and I couldn’t see anything but I could hear the river Yamuna somewhere and followed the sound to a large gate with a sign that read ‘bird sanctuary’. It was open, if only a little, so I went inside to investigate. Whatever this place was it would have to be my sanctuary else well for the night.

There were about 10 chalets along the river to the right and a big clubhouse to the left. The chalets were all empty but a light was burning inside the clubhouse. Judged by my new Indian-standards, this was classy joint and my spirits lifted a little. It could have been much worse, I told myself. It could have been a cemetery.

Looking back now, I should have gone to the clubhouse and asked permission to pitch my tent somewhere but I couldn’t face being turned away because there was, at this point, nowhere else I could go so I set up my tent next to the chalet furthest from the clubhouse just a few meters from the river. It was now already 21h00 and I was exhausted. My plan was to leave the next morning at 5h00 before anyone woke up. All I wanted now was a shower and something to eat but there were no showers or restaurants (not for a poor, trespassing traveler) so I went for a moonlit swim in the river and had ‘hide and seek’ chocolate-chip cookies (the best biscuits in India) for supper.

It was as the hottest night I spent in India and that’s saying a lot. It was a bird sanctuary so naturally the birds screeched so loudly that I started fantasizing about making a slingshot and killing them off and as I was perched 5 meters from a massive river, monstrous mosquitoes tormented me all night long. I only managed to fall asleep around 3h00 and I woke up at 6h50 and only because I heard voices outside.

Shit.

Ok, don’t panic I told myself as I unzipped the front door, peered outside and saw 2 young Punjabi boys staring at me and my green tent. I smiled, asked their names and even tried to joke about the killer mosquitoes but they didn’t speak. They didn’t even blink. And then they did the one thing I wanted them not to. They fetched the manager.

By the time the manager showed up I was packed up and ready to make a bee-line for the exit. He looked like he couldn’t decide whether I was a criminal or an alien.

Be cool. I greeted him and gave a quick explanation of why I was here: It was dark, it was late, there was nobody at the gate, I should have asked permission, I apologize, I’ll just be on my way, thank you, goodbye. He still had no idea what to do but obviously felt he needed to do something so he asked for my passport. I showed it to him but told him he could only have a quick look because I needed to be on my way. He handed me back my passport and left. Great, I thought, I was off the hook but just as I kicked the Yamaha to life the manager was back, with 2 official-looking persons. The one was in charge of ticket sales and the other was the guard at the gate.

The guard was being reprimanded, in front of me, and was in trouble because clearly he did not do his job. They were speaking Hindi but I understood their body language fluently. They were not happy. At one point the manager pointed at me and then all 6 eyes moved up and down as they looked at my shabby appearance. I realized that I looked rather worn-out. My jeans were torn and muddy and my t-shirt was no longer white and it smelled. Yes, I thought, look at me, I’m a poor traveler. I meant no harm, have mercy please. But they were having a debate and ignored me.

Suddenly the manager abruptly stopped the argument, looked at me and said ‘500 rupees’. I couldn’t believe it. For 500 rupees I could have slept in a hotel bed, had a hot shower, a cooked meal (plus dessert), watched some TV, checked my email and even bought breakfast. This had been one of my worst nights and I felt I was being wronged but had no basis for arguing because, strictly speaking, I wasn’t allowed to even be there, let alone squat there. In the back of mind I knew that I should shut up, pay up and go but I started an argument instead.

Knowing that he had already noticed, I motioned to my appearance and told him that I was a poor traveler caught in a bad situation and that I could definitely not afford to pay 500 rupees, I couldn’t even afford 50 rupees. At this point the financial manager joined in again and was clearly still unhappy about something. They talked some more while the guard looked at me accusingly. Finally the manager gave a grunt and said ‘Ok, 60 rupees’. The financial manager had won the debate and his argument was this: since they only saw me this morning and not the day before they could only charge me for today and since I was leaving they could only charge me the entry fee to the bird sanctuary, 60 rupees. The lawyer in me knew that his argument was definitely debatable but he had managed to convince everyone that it was a fair solution and I was grateful that it had worked.

I took out my wallet and had a moment of panic when I saw that the only note I had was a 1000 rupee note and it would have been painfully embarrassing to have to produce this large note after pleading poverty just a few minutes before. My luck was in and I had exactly Rs 60 change in coins and thought to myself as I counted out all those coins, that it suited my ‘poor traveler’ persona perfectly.

Once safely outside the bird sanctuary gate I gave a deep sigh, relieved that the situation was resolved and that Mussoorie was only a few hours away. Six weeks ago I made a promise to return to Mussoorie and I was happy that I would be making good on it. After the night I had I first needed a bath and a proper sleep before presenting myself to anyone so I booked into the Youth Hostel just outside of Mussoorie.

At the hostel I had a few hours of glorious sleep and then had a long, warm, bucket-of-water bath. This was my first ‘real’ bath since I went to Spiti and I examined every inch of myself, finally taking the time to figure out which parts were bruised and which were merely dirty.

The youth hostel had lots of empty rooms but I took a dorm-style for only 120 rupees. My bed was in a large hall with 9 other beds and it turned out that I was the only foreigner who had chosen a dorm bed so I had the entire hall to myself.

After my bath I put on the only clean t-shirt I had and set off to see my friends. Most of them worked at the learning centre at the church office so I had only one stop to make. Again I was deeply touched by how sincerely and warmly they welcomed me back and immediately wanted to know how long I was staying and booked me for dinner. We talked for a while, hugging every few minutes and then I went to have chai at Shallu’s favourite place, Chardukan, for old time’s sake. I felt happy and safe and loved and welcomed and knew that in the bird sanctuary last night I had found refuge but Mussoorie was a true sanctuary.

in my solitude

Ten days past in the solitude of Spiti Valley. The most isolated place imaginable. There was still no sign of Murray and Anna and I started thinking that they were creations of my imagination (of course I had made them Capetonians). When this kind of silence and isolation envelopes you, you think about anything and everything and mostly in slow motion. I realized that it was the conversation with Murray and Anna (imaginary or not) that had finally given me the confidence to come to this exquisite place on a motorbike. I also realized that it was, initially, the fact that I would have the companionship of two experienced riders that convinced me to do it but that I was grateful that I had this experience all to myself. By now I was used to the bad roads, the icy rivers and the loneliness and I settled into my lone-rider persona with a sense of satisfaction.

This valley was turning out to be nothing like I expected and more than I could ever have hoped for and even though everything in me resisted the extreme solitude at first, after a few days the days seemed endless and my thoughts infinite. I started seeing clearly how, in the city, my mind was so distracted and I remembered feeling the same way when I went to Namibia a few years ago. In my solitude I saw myself appreciating the little unnoticed things and I knew that I wanted to take that with me when I leave this Valley. I also knew that solitude as a lifestyle was insane but in small installments it can be life-changing.

Like I said, everything in me resisted the solitude and silence at first. Without noticing I was always looking for something to entertain or occupy my mind and it wasn’t until I had nothing more to read (I’d finished Anna Karenina while on my sickbed in Manali and had lost interest in my Lonely Planet though the title had new meaning) and the batteries of my MP3 player were dead that I really started thinking. Don’t let anyone tell you different, it’s not easy to still your mind but eventually I managed to. I soaked up the silence and let my mind wander. Mostly I felt acutely aware of how well I am loved back home and my mind kept going back to random events from when I was younger. One such event was when I was about 10 years old. My brother was in high school and a bully demanded his maths homework to copy. My brother refused but said that, if the bully wanted, they could meet after school and he would explain it to him. Of course the bully refused my brother’s offer and beat him up instead. I realized then why that story visited me again, because it is such a perfect picture of my brother’s heart. I had lost track of time and days and places and was just riding and thinking when I noticed that I was passing more and more people and I had to accept that I was leaving this beautiful, silent valley and would soon be back in the chaos.

The first person I ended up speaking to again, after almost 10 days of solitude, was Babaji. Babaji is a title not a name, as he explained. Babaji has no name, no family, no wealth or possession (besides his dagga pipe) and no social standing. He has renounced all of it to live an isolated life of solitude and service. This old man, who lives in a two by two meter mud hut along the slope of a mountain pass, has a long grey beard and dreadlocks, wears white loin cloth and flip-flops. He spends his days smoking dagga, chanting and blessing the few passers-by with a short prayer and a handful of sweets (dried fruit, nuts and sugar crystals). Babaji must have heard the Yamaha coming up the pass and was waiting for me when I reached his hut. It was getting late and I still had an hour, at least, to ride before I made it to my next stop, Sangla Valley but I agreed to have coffee with him. Note, not chai but coffee; coffee is for special occasions, he said and this was a special occasion. Babaji’s English was very good and despite that he was living in isolation he seemed to know a lot about what was happening in the world. As we sipped our coffee Babaji looked at me and announced that I was a very powerful woman; ‘just like Shakira’ he said and then added a ‘waka waka!’ and a smile.

I told Babaji that I had to move but I would be coming back his way in a few days and would stop by for coffee again and a longer chat. A few days later I stopped at Babaji’s little hut again where he was again waiting for me. We sat in his humble hut, sipped coffee and talk about anything that came up. That day I started early because I knew I would spend a few hours with Babaji and so there was no rush.

For breakfast Babaji presented me with 4 of the most amazing mangoes I’ve ever seen and showed me how to eat them Hindi-style. After a while Babaji lit his pipe and started smoking. This made him talk a lot more and also made him switch over to Hindi. I tried to follow but had to tell him after a while that I didn’t understand. Everything he was saying sounded uber cool and significant and since I was writing a blog, I decided to write some of what he was saying down. Again, I couldn’t find my diary so I wrote on my hand. Babaji saw me writing and came over to inspect my hand. He didn’t understand the English words but said ‘oh, sister, you are already writing in your diary?’ I thought that hilarious; so I wrote it down, on my other hand.

I wanted to take a photograph of Babaji before I left but my camera was in my luggage and it was quite a procedure getting it out. As I untied my bag Babaji observed me and then let out a ‘ooh, wonderful sister’. No doubt he was commenting on the unique way I tied my luggage to my bike; creative yet functional. Before I left I took a photograph of Babaji and he took one of me and then he gave me a big bag of sweets for the road. He placed both his hands on my head and blessed me. I wish I could have stayed longer. Tomorrow I start making my way back to Delhi.

Tabo, the vandal and the Dalai Lama

I left Kaza still laughing, permit in hand, around lunch-time and made it to the small town of Tabo by 16h00. The first thing I did was book into the monastery guesthouse. The facilities were as basic as humanly possible. A small, dark room with a single bed, a small window and a candle. I sighed, I was hoping to charge my camera batteries and MP3 player and then I realized that I was missing the point entirely. Just a few days back I had said that my life was too comfortable and now when I had, basically, everything I needed I was unsatisfied. I adjusted my attitude and went to the (shared) bathroom to take a shower. My new attitude evaporated, instead of a shower I got a bucket of water.

Afterwards I strolled around the monastery and found a library with all sorts of sacred writings, Tibetan books and teachings of the Dalai Lama. I also found a copy of the Lonely Planet, India (probably left behind by another nameless, faceless traveller) and decided to give in and buy it. Up until now I’d not used a guidebook and felt that it kind of steers you away from the real experiences but I was curious. I curled up on my plank-like monastery bed with my new book and flipped to ‘Tabo’. I learnt some interesting facts about the tiny town of Tabo like it’s the place the current Dalai Lama intends to retire. Later that day, in a chai shop, I asked my waiter if that was true. He gave me a stern, doubtful stare and asked me where I got my information from. I smiled, meekly, and said ‘the Lonely Planet?’. His face lit up and he started clapping his hands ‘oh, it’s true then!’

After my second cup of chai I went in search of the best place from which I expected I would be seeing the most amazing sunset of my life. The sky was incredible, a deep blue with a sea of great white clouds spread across it. I found a spot but it was still hours before the sun would set so I had another cup of chai and read my guide book. There was a brochure inside it, for Spiti Valley that read: ‘let your soul take flight and your senses delight in the Valley of the Spiti. Don’t wait for your second life.’ In India, I realized, believing in Karma, is like believing in gravity. You just do.

Unlike Manali, there were only a handful of foreigners in Tabo, walking around, taking photographs, basking in the silence and drinking chai. I met a beautiful Spanish couple inside the monastery but they were both so gorgeous that I was too intimidated to even speak to them. They were perfect, typical body beautiful Ibiza-types and I doubted we would have anything in common. They were probably off to some Tibetan rave, I decided. That night I ran into them again at a dhaba and I tried to shake off my shyness and finally managed to say ‘congratulations on winning the World Cup’. They were not football fans. Of course not. We sat, in silence at different tables and I knew my shyness was the main cause but I couldn’t shake it.

The next morning I stepped out of the Monastery and was greeted by a monk. He was also the receptionist. He pointed to my bike and I saw that one of the indicator lights was snapped off. He said that early that morning he had found the Yamaha lying on its side and after an exhausting struggle he had managed to put it the right way up. What happened? Who would do this? But the meek little monk had no answers, only apologies. If in Kaza I was the victim of a practical joker then in Tabo I was the victim of a sinister vandal. I thanked the monk for helping and smiled but secretly I considered that it would be very possible for me to interrogate the entire village in only a few hours but decided against it and went for breakfast instead.


Again the Spaniards were there. ‘Hello again’ the Spanish goddess said and before I could say anything they invited me to join them. The conversation was a little strained as I tried not to look at them too much. They were so beautiful that it was hard to not stare. I asked the woman (more or less my age) what she did back in Spain and totally expected her to say ‘model’ or ‘editor of Elle, Spain’ but she was a social worker. Only then, for the first time did I notice, not her perfect features, but her kind eyes and gentle manner. She had studied Law for a semester before switching and we both laughed like school girls when I told her I had done exactly the same but in reverse. After that the conversation flowed naturally and easy and I felt convicted, yet again, that I was still judging people by their appearances.

We ordered breakfast and ended up talking for another hour. They thought I was very brave (and cool) for riding a motorbike, solo, through this isolated valley but was modesty personified when they told me they were, get this, hitch-hiking through Spiti Valley. There is isolated and then there is might-as-well-be-on-the-moon isolated and Spiti Valley fell into the latter category. These Spaniards were hard-core and I felt another twinge of envy not just for their beauty but their originality. We ordered some more chai and then I said goodbye to my beautiful hitch-hiking friends, grateful for another incredible, random encounter.

what happened in Kaza

The road got a little better after Batal but every nerve in my body was still raw from the day before. I was ready to face more rivers but the way to Kaza was easier than I thought. Don’t misunderstand, it was still bad, but better. I relaxed a little into the new day enough to take a proper look at the changing landscape. On all sides were the majestic Himalayas and I was now entering the drier parts where no threat of rain hung over me. Everywhere Tibetan prayer-flags colored the sky and the mountains were pale, without any green, very unlike lush Manali.

I reached Kaza by late afternoon and immediately had to apply for an inner-line permit (foreigners need a permit to travel through this part of the valley). The power was out in the town of Kaza and so the permit office couldn’t issue my permit until the next morning when they opened, at 10h00. If the power’s back on that is.

Spiti Valley is known as the Buddhist circuit of Northern India so I used the time to visit the impressive monasteries and temples. I met another lovely Swiss couple who where lecturers in Tibetan religion/culture. We soon started talking and I invited them to have lunch with me at the only dhaba in Kaza. The conversation, in truth, was not that interesting (their tone of voice made my eye-lids droop in the way only boring teachers when talking too much can) and I was much more mesmerized by the Thukpa (Chinese noodle soup) I had for lunch.

For the first time I noticed the differences between this valley and the India I’ve seen so far. I've seen a lot of the Hindu culture and now it was Buddhist. Lemon and chili (used for good luck) and tied to every door in Delhi was replaced by Tibetan prayer-flags. Pictures of Shiva, Ganesh and Krishna were replaced by pictures of Buddha (or the Dalai Lama). Food was more Tibetan than Indian as were the faces and manner of the people. And then there was the silence. It was so quiet here and I knew it had as much to do with the fact that there were infinitely less people here as it was their way of life. Unlike the loud and expressive Indian Hindus these Buddhist folks were quiet and meditative. The silence in this valley was like the noise in Delhi. It was everywhere and you lived side by side with it.

I was determined to pitch my tent somewhere breathtaking and found a flat but hard patch just outside the town, next to the river. When I applied for my permit I asked the local policeman where I could pitch my tent and he smiled and said 'anywhere, Madame'. There were still a few hours of sunlight and I decided to use it to learn a little Hindi. I love this peculiar language and it was exciting to learn a new language that you get to use every day. Every new word or phrase opened another part of India and the people up to me and I loved it. Pronouncing these new words also required that I twisted my tongue in new and unfamiliar ways and I loved that too.

My bike was parked about 500m away from the tent in a random parking lot next to the field I was camping in. I felt uneasy for the Yamaha to be so far away but I didn’t want to ruin any of the plants that I would have destroyed if I rode over them with a motorbike. I could just make out the black handle bars when I peeked out of the tent and did so every hour or so but then I fell asleep and I woke up the next morning to the breathtaking sunrise I was hoping for. Casually I looked over to where the bike was parked but it wasn’t there. I went numb and started praying before I was out of the tent ‘no no no, please, no’ but the closer I got to the parking lot the more real it got. My bike was gone. Ok, I thought, it’s not the end of the world, you can always catch a bus out of here (who knows when though) but the bike-adventure was over. I sat down on the spot where I’d left my travel companion and waited for the tears to come. How could someone do this to an innocent traveler like me? I could imagine my brother laughing, sympathetically, when I told him. Just another freak accident, sister. And then I looked up and saw those familiar handle bars sticking out of a bush just 10m away. What the..?.

Someone had picked up the Yamaha and with obvious effort concealed it with leaves and sticks. It wasn’t hidden very well and looked kind of silly sticking out of a bush like that. My mind couldn’t make sense of what I was seeing as relief flooded into my body. Then the penny dropped, I’d been the victim of a practical joke.

Ha!

Someone in Kaza had played a trick on me. There was no doubt in my mind that is exactly what happened. I looked around frantically (it’s no fun if you can’t see how your trick plays out, the practical joker in me knew) but I couldn’t see anyone. I walked back to the tent and thought I heard laughing somewhere far off but it could have been my own laughter echoing off the mountains. All the tension of the past few days melted away and I wish I knew how to say ‘Good one!’ in Hindi.

the road much less travelled

Indians are laid back but Capetonians are laid back on another level, at least Indians are practical. It wasn’t until after I’d purchased my tent that I realized that Murray and Anna and I never made solid plans to meet at a certain time or place. None of us had a mobile phone (that worked anyway) and I had no idea where they were staying. During our delirious meeting we’d neglected to get some practical information and, I don’t know, thought we’d just magically meet again. We exchanged e-mail addresses but that wasn’t helping much because internet connections had been down for days. In my mind’s eye I could see Murray laughing through his thick beard and Anna shaking her head. The best thing I could do, I decided, was to leave on the day we discussed and hopefully meet them along the way. My heart, by this time, was fully set on this route, no matter what. I had no idea what to expect but, whatever it was, it made people raise their eyebrows when I told them.

Murray had said that the first day was tough, a few river crossings and bad roads but that’s all I knew. I braced myself and set off. For the first few hours I manoeuvred, carefully, along the Rohtang Pass. This pass was always being closed, sometimes for days, because the rains make it too dangerous. Murray and Anna’s planning was perfect (well, almost) and the pass was open. It was a beautiful pass but busy, and muddy and scary. By 11h00 I turned off the pass and took the road much less travelled and headed for Spiti. The road disappeared almost immediately and was replaced by large loose rocks and more mud. Also, I was the only person on this road. 3 hours passed and I wasn’t going faster than 20km/h and still no sight of another human being. I realized that I was not going to make it to Kaza (another 120km away) and felt the first tiny stabs of fear on the back of my neck. If something goes wrong here, I’m screwed.

Just then I came to my first river crossing. My heart stopped beating and all the blood drained from my face. Then my heart started beating again, in my throat, and fast. I stopped, switched off the bike and investigated the depth and breadth of the icy river. These rivers are formed by melting glaciers so to the right of the river was a huge glacier and to the left, a cliff. I thought of the time I was heading towards a busy intersection in Delhi with 2 passengers and how terrified I was then but this was different, this was raw fear. Undiluted.

The river was knee deep (deep enough to scare the heebeegeebees out of me). I kicked the bike to life, took a deep breath and jumped, so to speak. The bike got stuck lots because at the bottom of the river there were large loose rocks but because I couln’t see them I was not directing the front wheel over them. My heart was screaming loudly in my ears and I knew that if the engine seized now I would not be able to push the bike through to the other side. Even though the bike was completely wet, the engine never died and when I finally got to the other side I felt high and was shaking, partly because the water was freezing but mostly because I was terrified.

There were 7 more river crossings, 5 of them hectic. Once the engine died when the bike fell over and I had to summon my superhuman strength to get the bike back up, finally standing next to it with the freezing water coming up to the middle of my thigh. The bike was almost completely submerged. I mounted the bike, kicked, and it started. I couldn’t believe it. Suddenly I felt like I could do anything and the next crossings, though they were terrifying, went smoother. I felt sorry for the Yamaha but I started thinking of it as my never-say-die travel companion. I felt like it was just this machine and I surrounded by the Himalayas. Nothing else existed. I even howled a few times when we made it safely through a river. I was losing my mind a little and it felt incredible.

By 18h00 I was nowhere near Kaza but I came to a small one-room hut/shop in Batal (another 80km from Kaza). I decided to pitch my tent and asked the owner of the hut where a good spot would be. He indicated to a hill and I strolled over to investigate. Behind the hill were 5 other tents and about 40 horses running around noisily. Each horse had a bell tied around his neck. I fetched the bike and before I could even untie my luggage there were 2 Indian guys standing next to me. They introduced themselves, pitched my tent (refusing to let me help) and invited me to dinner in their tent. I accepted and told them that I would come over as soon as I got clean, dry and warm. In Manali I wanted to buy these thick, hand-made, woollen socks but forgot and now I wish I had remembered. My feet were frozen and I knew it would be a long night if I couldn’t warm them up. I walked back to the hut and hooray the guy was selling them. Random. I bought a pair but back in my tent they suddenly looked more like gloves than socks (actually more like oven mitts). I needed them to be socks so I put them on my feet and to my delight they fit, like a glove.

When I stepped outside my tent a young Indian guy, Pangarg, was waiting to escort me to the dinner tent. Pangarg and his team of trekkers were taking a group a Scottish tourist on a 2 week trek through the valley and the horses were transporting all the food, tents and gear. He carefully steered me past the tent with the foreigners and led me to a large square tent. The moment I stepped inside I realized that I was the guest of honour. My seat was right next to an older Tibetan man; he was the guide (and elder) and knew the mountains and the valley better than anyone. He gave me a warm smile when I sat down. He didn’t speak any English and grinned when I greeted him in Hindi.

After I sat down I was handed a thick woollen blanket to wrap myself up in and a cup of soup. The conversation between the men started up again once I was settled in and soon they were joking, talking and smoking easily. I asked questions and got asked questions in return, with Pangarg translating. Suddenly everyone stopped talking and listened to something outside. It was the horses; they had calmed down and were now lazily grazing among the tents. I closed my eyes to listen to the bells and realized that all the bells were different sizes (or tones) and what I was listening to was a symphony of bells, amplified by the surrounding mountains. I opened my eyes and all 6 men were beaming at me with joy and pride as they saw I realized what it was that I was listening to. Extraordinary. These people, I thought, were creative in ways I might never even dream of because my life was simply too comfortable. We listened for a while and then dinner was served. It was a simple meal, rice and dahl, but it was wonderful and hot. They graciously offered me a spoon but I graciously declined and tucked in like everyone else with my hands. This got me an approving nod from the Elder.

He was wearing a traditional kullu cap (a roundish cap with green, red and orange patches) and I suddenly thought of my father (who, incidentally, is very fond of wearing hats) and wondered if he would wear such an eccentric hat. He might, I decided, if I gave it to him. Like all daughters, I am adored by my father and I felt a sudden urge to speak to him and tell him I love him and that I’m bringing him a new hat.

After dinner we talked some more and I asked about the weather. ‘Is it always this cold this time of year?’, ‘when does the snow come?’ The guide said that the last couple of years have been different and it keeps changing. Nobody really knows what to expect anymore. Seasons are longer or shorter than usual. ‘Global warming’ I said and suddenly the guide looked at me with a hard, sad face. No doubt he’d heard those words from some passing traveller but he didn’t know about climate change because he’d seen ‘an inconvenient truth’ or because MTV was telling him to ‘think green’. He knew about it because everything in his world, the sky, the seasons, the landscape was telling him that something is wrong.

We sat in silence for a while and then they asked if I would like a glass of rice bine. I heard rice wine but they insisted it was ‘bine’ and it turned out to be a lot like sake (rice wine) only much (much much) stronger and with my first sip I got another approving nod. After the rice bine and several more cups of chai I thanked them for their hospitality and Pangarg escorted me back to my tent. I couldn’t fall asleep and I remembered a conversation I’d had with a lovely Swiss couple back in Manali. Because I was heading toward much higher altitudes they warned me against AAS (acute altitude sickness) and told me to avoid drinking any tea, coffee or alcohol. I lay in my sleeping bag, giggling. Too late.

The next morning I stepped outside and Pangarg was waiting to escort me to breakfast. Had he been out there the whole night? I could imagine the guide telling him to stand watch outside my tent in case some crazed foreigner tried to harm me. To thank them I let them take turns riding the bike around the field (hilarious) and then we had a mini photo-shoot. I posed with everyone, even the horses. We said our goodbyes, they were heading to Chandertal and I was heading to Kaza, in the opposite direction.

Again I left feeling grateful for the kindness of these men and for having survived the day before. I rode past them and waved. Day 2 and still no sign of Murray and Anna and I had no idea what to expect next.