Under Angels' Wings: Delhi to Leh
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Infinite possibilities—Delhi, India; Friday, August 5, 2011, morning
My plan was to go to the train station and buy a ticket for tomorrow’s express train to Chandigarh, a short first step toward the Himalayas. God must have thought my plan humorous.
Peese, the auto driver who the hotel manager called to transport me to the train station, suggests a tour and transportation service company instead. The sales agent there recommends a luxury package: all the way to Leh/Ladakh in four days for more than $1,300. No thank you. Yet, the idea of going beyond Chandigarh has appeal. So I contract a driver to take me to Manali, in the foothills. We can get that far in a 16-hour day, leaving tomorrow morning at 6:30, at a cost of $350. God intervenes again with a call on my new mobile. The people I’m to meet this afternoon suddenly aren’t available. Peese suggests another destination, and I choose the Gandhi Memorial. On our way, he invites me to his home for a meal. “I’m not rich,” he adds, suggesting that his home is probably not what he thinks I, as an American, am accustomed to. I accept, and he turns abruptly toward a row of derelict buildings, parks, hops out, and disappears through a narrow opening. A minute or two later, he returns. “It’s set.” “Is this where you live?” “Yes. My wife will have food ready at one, two hours from now. You have two hours for Gandhi Memorial, then we come here and eat.” I look at Krishna, the hotel employee who has come along as my guide and guardian—a matter of protocol for guest safety. He and Peese exchange words, and the happy mood of a few minutes earlier disappears. Krishna looks at me. He stops shy of shaking his head to indicate, “Don’t go there.” I decide that, when we drop Krishna off at the hotel, to get the manager’s opinion. The conversation includes all of us. It’s pleasant and all concerns are laid aside. Peese gives his business card with the manager, and we leave Krishna at the hotel to be available for other guests. Peese says he has a son in school Level 7 who is studying computers, two girls in Level 5 and Level 2, and a younger boy. His auto (aka auto rickshaw or cabin cyle), a three-wheeled open-air vehicle with an air-cooled engine that runs on natural gas and can carry three passengers, is 14 years old. He wants to buy it and not have to pay the owner 500 rupees per day rental. A new auto costs more than 500,000 rupees. He can buy this one for 370,000, and he’s saved half that much over several years. |
It's really fun to read about your awarding adventures in Asia. It's like magic how our intentions can take us to such special places and people. — T.D.
Stories within this chapter:
Infinite possibilities (posted August 21, 2011) Peace within (posted August 21, 2011) Peese's family (posted August 21, 2011) Delhi to Manali (posted August 21, 2011) Roadside food (posted August 21, 2011) Paid too much (posted August 21, 2011) First time (posted August 21, 2011) Which coach? (posted August 21, 2011) Critical misassumption (posted August 22, 2011) Rescued (posted August 22, 2011) The passengers (posted August 22, 2011) Spectacular, treacherous Leh-Manali Highway (posted August 22, 2011) Stupas, chortans, and truck art (posted September 4, 2011) Drama at thedhaba (posted September 4, 2011) Our chosen seats (posted September 4, 2011) The Tibetan departs (posted September 4, 2011) Arrival in Leh (posted September 4, 2011) Read
Flat tire and rock slide, a story about returning from Leh to Manali on the Leh-Manali Highway. |
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I look at Krishna, the hotel employee who has come along as my guide and guardian—a matter of protocol for guest safety. He and Peese exchange words, and the happy mood of a few minutes earlier disappears. Krishna looks at me. He stops shy of shaking his head to indicate, “Don’t go there.” I decide that, when we drop Krishna off at the hotel, to get the manager’s opinion.
The conversation includes all of us. It’s pleasant and all concerns are laid aside. Peese gives his business card with the manager, and we leave Krishna at the hotel to be available for other guests. Peese says he has a son in school Level 7 who is studying computers, two girls in Level 5 and Level 2, and a younger boy. His auto (aka auto rickshaw or cabin cyle), a three-wheeled open-air vehicle with an air-cooled engine that runs on natural gas and can carry three passengers, is 14 years old. He wants to buy it and not have to pay the owner 500 rupees per day rental. A new auto costs more than 500,000 rupees. He can buy this one for 370,000, and he’s saved half that much over several years. |
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Peace within—Delhi, India; Friday, August 5, 2011, late morning and afternoon
Simply walking through the entrance of the Mahatma Gandhi Memorial entices me to slow to an easy stroll. The difference between the noisy bustle of Delhi’s streets and here is like finding nirvana.
Humidity hangs in the air like in a sauna, and within a few steps, I’m sweating. Nevertheless, I stay outside, roaming the grounds. I can go inside the museum if it starts to rain. The property was once known as Birla House, the home of a friend. Gandhi had often been a guest here, including the last 44 days of his life. A trail of footprints cast like the soles of sandals delineate his final path from the main house, now the museum, to where he was assassinated and bled to death from point-blank gunshot wounds. A small pavilion stands over a column there, about 30 feet from Gandhi’s intended destination, his favorite prayer spot, which is now an enclosed room painted on the interior with images of Gandhi at various times in his life. People are not allowed to retrace Gandhi’s footsteps but may walk a parallel path. Shoes must be removed and stowed in cubicles before ascending two steps to the pavilion or prayer spot. A wall of three dozen panels—written in both Hindi and English—provide an interpretive history of the cultural, economic, and social conditions of India in 1850s. The panels depict Gandhi’s rise to leadership of the Indian people and their eventual riddance of British rule. Inside the museum, a static model of the grounds shows the Mahatma’s final steps. There, also, guides explain a very high-tech multi-media display of Gandhi’s life and beliefs. Tactile and acoustic technologies invite audience interaction: touch this tube and see Gandhi’s words appear on an LCD screen; play this xylophone and see images appear on a wall; step aboard a train engine, touch a location on a map, and see Gandhi’s activities there. A timeline of Gandhi’s life extends the length of one wall. Rather than a series of panel displays, an LCD monitor rides on a track. Align the monitor with a year painted on the wall, and the image changes to depict Gandhi’s activities at that time. Outside, between the museum and the entrance that leads back into Delhi’s bustle, I pause to enjoy the World Peace Gong that contains symbols of the world’s religions and flags of the world’s nations. A plaque there displays one of Gandhi’s beliefs: “I will not like to live in this world if it is not to be one.” Peese is waiting, always exhibiting his entrepreneurial spirit. When he had dropped me off earlier, I was barely out of his auto when he whisked two new passengers away. How many other fares might he have garnered in the interim? He walks with a limp. When I ask, he hikes up his left pant leg and shows his shin. The bone is far from straight, making his left leg probably two inches shorter than his right. “Traffic accident,” he says. He was walking across a street and struck by a car 20 years earlier. He was 24, still living in Bengali. The leg looks like it never had professional medical attention. Peese will never be renowned like Gandhi, yet words of the Mahatma define both of these men: “I deny being a visionary. I do not accept the claim of saintliness. I am of the earth, earthly …” |
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Peese's family—Delhi, India; Friday, August 5, 2011, 1:30 to 2:30 pm
Peese parks his auto where he had when we stopped there before. He says something to a man nearby that, in an old American Western movie, could mean, “Watch my horse.”
We walk past a man welding a wheel. His workbench is the ground, and he squats to perform his task. We enter that same narrow space between two buildings. The walkway widens gradually. Peese walks quickly. Other men, some wearing turbans, watch me but I sense no danger. The entrance to Peese’s home is a narrow doorway and up eight steps. Standing at the top, he warns me to duck my head under a shelf above the doorway. At the top, we make a left turn and enter a single room. This is the family home, painted bright blue. Peese motions for me to sit on a blanket on the floor. A single pillow rests on one edge of the blanket. This is clearly their bed, and I hesitate, but Peese insists. “Should I take off my shoes?” “No. No. Please sit.” Seated, my back is against the wall opposite the door and my head is inches below clothing and school bags that hang on a series of hooks. The rest of the family’s wardrobe hangs from another series of hooks on the adjacent wall. Peese’s wife, Musline, squats near the opposite corner of the blanket, preparing a meal of dal, chicken, and chapatti. She’s Muslim and this is Ramadan, so she’s fasting until sundown. Peese, not a Muslim, eats heartily, however, and the children eat a small portion. The chicken is chewy and the dal too spicy for my taste, but I manage to eat quite a bit—thanks to the neutral chapatti and the bottle of water I brought with me. Peese senses my hesitation about the dal, and I say something about my American stomach. He and Musline talk, and he tells me she made it “mild.” I utilize my camera to change the subject from food and gently push my plate away. The children are more than eager to have their picture taken and love it when I pass the camera around so they can see the most recent image. Peese and Musline pose together. Their house belies financial poverty, yet they are rich with love and laughter, family and togetherness. And generosity. In fact, as Peese and I are about to leave, he removes—with Musline’s apparent permission—a silver necklace from around her neck and hands it to me. “It is a gift,” he says. I refuse, and he insists. I refuse again, and he continues to insist until I finally accept. Two of his younger children follow us down the stairs, through the narrow space between buildings, and to the street. They are happy to pose with their dad in the backseat of his auto. |
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Delhi to Manali—India; Saturday, August 6, 2011, 7:30 am to midnight
Manoj is just late enough for me to finish my breakfast. He’s already driven an hour from his home.
The hotel staff expresses appreciation for my business and their pleasure that I ask this driver to write his name, license number, and plate number on a sheet of paper to leave with them. Traffic is moderate, and we exit Delhi quickly. Near the edge of town, he stops at a major intersection where many Indians have congregated. "Someone will be here in five minutes to meet me. He has money for me," Manoj says. He gets out of the car. "Stay here.” Close to my side of the car is a long fence made of plywood panels, painted orange and marked with a construction company logo. In the narrow space between the fence and the car, men and children pass. Some of them stop to look through spaces between the plywood panels. People come and go in both directions on foot, bicycle, motorcycle, and car. Some park and get out. Someone comes along, gets in, and they drive off. I turn around and see Manoj standing behind the car. He's talking with another man who extends Indian currency. I wonder if this is a drug deal, but the color of the currency indicates a relatively small transaction, so I let that thought go. When Manoj gets in the car, the other man follows him to his driver’s door and extends his hand through the window frame to me. "I'm sorry to hold you up," he says. We shake hands in hip 'hood fashion: normal, arm-wrestle grip, fingertip grip, and fist bump. All is well. A few kilometers later, Manoj asks, “What do you think of Indian people?” I reply with observations about their beauty and desire to be helpful. I mention the gorgeous temples and stupas and disparity between wealthy and poor, between people who work hard and people who seem to be idle. "Too many people. We have too many people." Many moments pass, then he says, “All people are good, but time is not good.” “I understand about people. What do you mean about time?” “People change from time. Everybody is good. They are made by God. But sometimes bad. They do bad things.” He points out at icon of Shri Sai Baba on his dashboard. "He's a guru, dead 100 years. He tells me all people are one." I concur, and we discuss world brotherhood and all humanity's connection with God. "Each day, I pray that all life is good and people will be blessings." I offer a prayer taught to me by my unofficially adopted mother, Dala, who passed from this life just a month before my departure from Michigan: "Lord, help me to give to each person I meet today exactly what that person most needs from me." The conversation shifts to economy. Manoj says he earns 100 rupees a day, a number that seems impossibly low for the time and energy he will put into driving 16 hours to Manali and another 16 hours back tomorrow. That's also an amount that seems shamelessly low considering that I paid 28,000 rupees for his services for one long day. Yes, the company he works for bought the car and runs an office, but if that is all he receives, then something is terribly askew. I question him more than once about his wages, and he says again and again that is true. |
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Roadside food—Punjab, India; Saturday, August 6, 2011, noon
An idea for a radio drama script has been running around my head for the past several weeks, so I ask Manoj if it would be okay with him if I get in the back seat, turn on my computer, and write. He has no objection.
I'm at the final touches two hours later when he suddenly pulls over to the side of the road. We're past Chandigarh, in Punjab, out in the country, although some structures are nearby, and we're under the shade of an ample deciduous tree. "Food," he says, getting out of the car without an invitation for me to join him. "May I come with you?" He seems slightly surprised, like maybe he thought I would have my own food with me, but says, "Yes." |
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We cross the road, Indian fashion, running in small gaps in traffic to a place where a large canopy covers about 60 people sitting on a threadbare red rug, eating. A man who acts like a maître de in this side-of-the-road eatery greets us. He asks, "Where you from?" and welcomes me.
I'm hesitant of what to do, and Manoj doesn't take the lead either. So, this man grabs my hand and leads me through those who are eating with their plates on the rug. He walks quickly, and I am careful not to step in someone's food. Past a haphazard pile of bright silver tin plates, he takes us to a man who speaks English. This man directs Manoj and me to come with him, toward a small building in which a car would not fit, past a counter at which a man sits, and to a bench that’s more like a shelf for humans built into the wall. It becomes clear this is where I and Manoj are to sit. "Why not out there?" I ask, pointing to where we had just walked. "Because you are our special American guest," Manoj answers. The Indian beside him nods. I feel like I'm being stuck in an out-of-the way place, so I politely protest. "I wish to eat with the others." The men look at each other, then agree. The Indian host leads both of us to a place for two. We remove our shoes, leaving them at the edge of the rug, and take our places. Soon, another Indian appears with one of those plates I had seen earlier with a typical picnic design: three parts, one larger for the entree and two smaller. Another man comes along with chapatti. He places two slices on my plate and two on Manoj's. Another man brings dal. A third kheer, which is a liquid pudding of rice, milk, and fruit. A fourth offers water from a pitcher, which I, not knowing its source, decline. The dal is reasonably tame, and the kheer is delicious. I ask for more of both. A young man with a microphone speaks throughout most of the time we eat. "What's he saying, Manoj?" "He's inviting people come and eat here. This is Shani Dar, Saturday. Shani is the Lord of Saturday. This giving of food is what Hindus do on Shani Dar." I want to take photographs, and Manoj says it will be all right. My first two subjects are a pair of boys who, through my querying look and their nods, give permission. In the background, over their shoulders, I see the man who greeted us start to come forward. Uh-oh. He gathers three other food servers around him and poses them behind the boys. They smile gleefully when I show them the digital image on my camera viewer. He then grabs my hand again and leads me toward the small building where I had refused to eat, where I had met the man who spoke English well, and where the man with the microphone was attracting all comers. These men stop what they're doing and pose too. After the first picture, another two men jump into view for a second shot. Then they want me to take pictures of the woman and four men washing dishes. I take these quickly because Manoj is indicating that it's time to leave. We cross the road in a break in traffic, hop in the car, and move on. For the next several kilometers, we pass dozens of such places on both sides of the road where people are worshipping Singh through communion with their brothers and sisters—even a man from America. |
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Paid too much—Road to Manali, India; Saturday, August 6, 2011, evening
I pay for chai and toast with butter for both Manoj and I at one dhaba. Before getting out of the car at the next, he says, “Don’t pay for my food. I get driver discount. When you pay, you pay too much.” The food earlier, for both of us, had cost 80 rupees, about 20 cents in the U.S.
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First time—Road to Manali, India; Sunday, August 7, 2011, midnight
Several times, I’ve asked Manoj where he will sleep when we arrive in Manali. Each time, he’s been vague. Yet, I think I know what the answer: in the car.
“Will you share my room?” I finally ask, wondering if his religious beliefs or cultural protocol would interfere. “Yes,” he replies. At the hotel, I’ve been assigned to a room with a double bed. Two beds don’t seem to be available. “We can share,” I tell Manoj. He hesitates. Clearly religion and culture are not obstacles. Maybe it’s professional pride or some man-to-man thing. Back at the car, I hoist my gear to my shoulders and say, “We can share.” He shrugs. A hotel porter, waiting on the steps, escorts me to my room. I drop my gear and go back outside. “Come on.” He follows. In the room, he chooses the couch rather than half of the bed. This is fine with me too. At least he’s no outside. I bring him a blanket from the closet. He turns on the TV at a low volume. I read until exhausted—a matter of a few minutes. The next morning, Manoj says, “I’ve been driving 12 years. This is first time a passenger say it is right for me to sleep in hotel.” |
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Which coach?—Manali, India; Sunday, August 7, 2011, morning
Private coach entrepreneurs seem to occupy almost every storefront on any given busy street in the mountain areas of Ladakh. The shops are nothing more than a cubicle with a desk and a telephone and photographs of marvelously clean and comfortable vehicles that misrepresent reality.
I have contact information for Yeti Travels, having ridden with one of their drivers who transported part of our group for The High ultramarathon last year. The man who answers the phone says that driver is in Leh and won’t be back for two or three days, the cost of a private driver is 14,000 rupees ($300.00), and the cost of a public coach that carries 11 passengers is one-tenth of that. I choose the coach and ask Manoj to drive me there. |
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He finds a rare parking spot and says he knows exactly how to find Yeti Travel. We walk up a steep incline past sewer excavation that’s being dug by hand toward the congested bazaar that might be considered town centre. He leads me to a particular storefront. It doesn’t look familiar. “This isn’t Yeti Travel.”
“This is cheaper and better.” He talks to a young Indian man in Hindi. The man speaks to me in English and says the cost of a private bus is 1700 rupees for the one-day trip and 1900 rupees for the two-day trip. I tell Manoj this is more expensive than Yeti. “Take me there.” “Yes. Yes.” He leads me to a building next door to the first place. They are so close that I assume—incorrectly—that they are the same business. Manoj is clearly not ready to take me to Yeti, so I follow for a bit longer. Here, the man inside shows me a picture of their beautiful coaches and the 11-passenger seating chart. There is only one seat left, he says. Seat #10. “Here is the driver. Here is the seat behind the driver. Here is the entrance. Here is your seat, right behind the entrance. It will be perfect seat for you.” He speaks as though telling an indelible truth. With no trace of doubt that I will be anywhere but in that seat. The price is what the man outside had stated: 1700 rupees for the one-day trip and 1900 rupees for the two-day trip. Back outside, I say to Manoj, “Why don’t you take me to Yeti Travel?” “This is better and cheaper.” “No. This is more expensive than Yeti (albeit not much). Take me there.” We walk back down the hill, past where we had parked, and find Yeti Travel in the location that I recognize from last year. Inside, the same man I spoke with on the phone quotes a higher price than he had on the phone: 100 rupees less than where Manoj had taken me. “Why is the price higher now than an hour ago?” “Others set the price,” he says, dismissively. When a telephone call interrupts our conversation, I take the time to step outside and check in with my inner self. This doesn’t feel right. The location is too far down the hill, too far away from the restaurants and Internet spots and places where I can hang out for the day. I feel discomfort at waiting outside here after dark until the early morning departure time. “Let’s go back to the first place,” I tell Manoj, and we retrace our steps there. ”Challo, challo,” I say, using one of the few Hindi words I know. He smiles and picks up the pace to correspond with my command that we walk faster. Seat #10 is still available and I pay 1700 rupees for the privilege of occupying it. I ask if I can get on early. |
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“You be here at eight,” the man selling the ticket says, “and you can sleep on the coach.” He also recommends that I book a room across the way at the Grassland Hotel. “Only 200 rupees.”
Manoj and I walk back down the hill. He drives a big circle to get around the excavation and drops me off in front of the Grassland. I've decided to check it out. “Don’t pay any more than 200 rupees,” he advises. “How much?” I ask the hotel manager whose tiny office contains enough room for him and maybe two other people, plus a short cot where the night manager sleeps. “Four hundred rupees.” “I heard 200.” “Okay.” “Let me see the room.” It’s not much—a flop house, really. I wouldn’t want to sleep there, but it’s clean enough for working and parking my gear for the next 12 hours, especially when I go out to find an Internet café and for my evening meal. And the cost? Well, 200 rupees is less than $5. I retrieve my gear from Manoj’s vehicle, bid him gratitude, and hike two floors up to hang out for the rest of the day. Once, I go across the way to ask a question of the coach company. I go to where Manoj had introduced me to the first man. “We are not your company.” I show him my receipt. “We are not your company.” He points to the building next door, where I had paid my money: Manali Luxury Coach. “That is your company.” Did I mention that coach and bus companies seem to occupy almost every storefront? |
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Critical misassumption—Manali, India; Sunday, August 7, 2011, afternoon and Monday, August 8, 2011, early morning
At 7:30, I eat a cheese and black olive pizza at an outdoor restaurant within sight of both Manali Luxury Coach and Grassland Hotel. By 8:30, when the restaurant closes, the coach that will take me to Leh has not arrived. The town centre is dark. Curs that lie asleep all day and bark all night are beginning to awaken and prowl for food. I’m glad I’ve got a room at the Grassland.
From there, at 9:00 and 9:30, I look for the coach; it’s not there. At 10:00, it is. Relieved, I go back to my room, work on an article, and idly pass time. I sit there until 1:40 in the morning, knowing all I have to do is walk down the stairs, across the town centre, and get on the coach. There is no coach. “Where is the coach?” I ask the hotel clerk, a young man who I had to awaken so he would let me out the padlocked security gate. “Bus stand.” He walks with me down the outdoor stairs and around the corner of the nearest building. He points right, down the hill. “Left. Two hundred meters.” It’s dark down there. I walk past the excavation, past a congregation of trucks and drivers who are enjoying a middle-of-the-night meal from a man cooking and serving dal and chapatti. I see a bevy of cars and SUVs on the left, but no one is around them. I walk on. Farther down the hill, past where Manoj and I had parked the previous day, to the Yeti Travel office. Nothing. No one. No coaches. As I’ve been walking, I’ve been calling and calling the number for Manali Luxury Coach that the man had given me that afternoon. No answer. I start back up the hill. Calling the number again and again. The time is now 2:01—one minute past departure time. Dogs are all about, looking for their evening meal. Don’t pet or go near any animal, no matter how friendly they look, the travel advisory nurse back in Kalamazoo had warned me in regard to rabies. These dogs don’t look friendly. Three times, I pause, watching to see which way one or two mongrels are going to go before I choose whether to proceed or not. Each time, they stop too, check me out, then move on. I ask the man cooking dal, “Bus stand?” He doesn’t understand. “Bus to Leh?” No comprehension. I ask a driver. He points toward the lot with parked cars. On the way, I ask two young men. They don’t know. I see a coach ahead. It’s the right size. It’s near a sign that says Manali Luxury Coach. People are mingling around it. Ahh. It’s not my coach. A young man who speaks reasonable English leads me to the Manali Luxury Coach office. This is a different office than where I had paid my fare earlier. It may or may not be the same company. Inside, a man is asleep on a cot. The youth and I enter. We attempt to wake him, but he’s out. Even though I wish he were my driver, I’m glad he’s not; he’d have a lot of waking up to do first. The youth looks at my receipt. “Is this the phone number?” When I confirm it is, he tries to call on his mobile. No answer. Then he makes the all-important discovery. On the lower right corner of the receipt: “Report time 1:00 am. Departure time 1:30 am.” I missed the coach. I missed the bus. I was sitting in my room two flights of stairs and 100 feet away when the coach left. I missed the bus. I was sure the man who took my money had said it left at 2:00. But had I checked the receipt? No. I missed the bus. It’s 2:15. They are long gone by now. I’m half way down the hill, left behind. I stomp back up the hill, cursing myself for not being more attentive. “I missed the bus. I was sitting in my room, and I missed the us.” Damn, I’m angry at myself. And I won’t print the words I used and names I called myself. I retrieve my key from the night clerk and plop my gear on the bed. Anticipating nighttime travel through the Himalayas and without control of inside temperature, I’m wearing three layers of shirts and jacket. I had walked—nervously, anxiously—for more than half an hour, carrying my gear. Sweat is rolling from my body. I remove my soaked shirts, towel off, put on a clean shirt, remove my shoes and socks, and plop on the bed. Staring at the ceiling from which water had been dripping and paint had been peeling that afternoon, I mumble and mutter more curses at myself. I missed the bus. |
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Rescued—Manali, India; Monday, August 8, 2011, 2:30 am
There’s a knock on my door.
“Who is it?” A young man’s voice responds in Hindi. No one knows I’m here. There’s no reason for anyone to be knocking on my door. I resolve not to open it. “What do you want?” Among several Hindi words, I hear “bus." I open the door, sensing, in an instant, that I’m being guided, that opening the door is okay, safe, good, necessary. Three young men stand in the corridor where, as I had observed before, no lights are present. Certainly, if harm is their intent, I would not be able to stop them. This thought comes in a flash while the majority of my consciousness is still on the miserable fact that I missed the bus. Again, the one in front says, “Bus.” “Yes, I missed the bus. It’s gone. I will go tomorrow night.” He doesn’t accept this answer. I repeat. And thus the conversation volleys three or four times, with me positioning my body between the door frame and the edge of the door, which I have only partially opened. Mine is a weak façade. If these men want to get in, they can easily do so, slamming the door open and flinging me backward onto the bed. Soon, the other two are saying, “Bus. Bus.” “Yes, I know. The bus left an hour ago. I missed it.” With an edge of frustration, the one in front says, “Your receipt.” As if compelled, I open the door wide, revealing my open backpack topped with my wet shirts, the smaller pack with my precious computer and camera and passport, my wallet on the table. I am vulnerable. “Give me receipt,” he says. I open my wallet and do so. He points at the coach number on the receipt. “My bus.” “You’re the driver?” I’m incredulous. “Yes. Driver. Come.” “I have to repack and put on my shoes.” “Five minutes.” Yessir. I scurry, focusing, not letting my mind wander to this incredible turnaround, visually checking and mentally double checking that I have all the essentials. As is so often the case when traveling, there’s no coming back and anything left behind is forever left behind. A little more than five minutes later, I’m negotiating the semi-dark hallway with my gear on my shoulders. I’ve intentionally left the door to my room open and the light on. If they won’t put lights in the corridor, then they can for an extra bit of electricity this night. “You coming?” a voice from the stairway shouts. “Yes. Slow.” “I help.” He reaches out a hand to accept the reusable cloth bag in which I’ve packed a bottle of water and snacks. For as much as he wants me to hurry, I move carefully. This is no time for a broken leg. I toss the room key on the night clerk’s empty cot, then move just as slowly down the outer steps that are wet with dew. I see backpacks under a tarp atop the coach. If mine is to go there, too, I’m going to insist on three more minutes to cover it with its nylon travel cocoon. Fortunately, that’s not necessary. The driver loads my backpack through the back door behind the rear seat, and I carry my camera/computer/passport bag and my snack bag into the front entryway. A middle-aged man is sitting in seat #10. So much for “assigned seats.” In fact, the only seat left is an unpadded, folding kitchen chair set in the aisle forward of the second group of seats and aft of the front group of seats. This is like standing room only but with a chair—such as it is. My face wears a weak, apologetic smile while I stifle an urge to mutter, “I’m sorry,” to the waiting passengers. Then, I realize what had happened. That afternoon, the clerk had asked the name of my hotel and Manoj had explained that if I had a room elsewhere—such as in one that he had shown me high on a hill and far away from this town centre—then the coach would have picked me up there. For the last hour or so, the coach had been making the rounds. The driver and his helpers had picked up everyone else and loaded their gear topside. Then these Indian angels came back for me. As we leave Manali at 3:00 am, I am a bundle of mixed emotions: lingering anger at myself for missing the coach in the first place and being relegated to this seat that’s growing more and more uncomfortable with each bounce, eternally grateful to have a seat at all, amazed that I’m on my way and not staying the night at Grassland. |
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The passengers—Manali Luxury Coach; Monday, August 8, 2011, the dark of morning through daybreak
With a few glances around, I assess the other passengers. Three are seated in the third row where, according to the seating chart in the Manali Luxury Coach booking office, four are to be. Three more are behind me, one diagonally to my left and two diagonally to my right. Similarly, two are diagonally ahead to my right, and seat #10, is ahead to my left. The driver is in the right front corner. And seat #11 is the “shotgun” seat in the left front corner.
The driver is Ramlal, in his 30s, maybe pushing 40, who lights up a short, strong, brown-wrapped cigarette once in a while, fortunately opening his window when he does. Ofir from Israel is supposed to be in seat #11, but he has generously traded with Lisa from Germany who is sick to her stomach so she can more easily access the door or a window that opens if necessary. The man in seat #10 is in the military; he speaks no English and I don’t learn his name. Ray from Israel is closest on my diagonal right. To his right is Shoeb from southern India whose skill in both Hindi and English will become a great blessing on this journey. Behind them are Cosima and Anna; they have come visit Lisa who works for NGO in India. Lisa’s seat, now occupied by Ofir, is in the same row with them. Two traveling together in the backseat are Yujin and Anna from Korea. And the third person, occupying more than his share of space is a Tibetan man, probably in his 40s, who speaks only Tibetan and works his prayer beads while audibly mumbling, “Om mane padme hum.” Each of other passengers has a reclining seat and quickly settle into sleep. My chair has amazingly comfortable back support but very hard on the butt and absolutely no place to rest my head. And this road, as we climb steeply out of Manali, is so rough that it would dislocate the spring neck on a bobble head doll. At one point, Lisa, sleeping, is bounced out of her seat, landing on the floor between her and the gear shifter. I anchor my elbows into the tops of the two seats diagonally in front and grip my temples with my palms. This works until impact with a bump in the road jars one or both elbows loose. So, mostly, I stay awake: watching the road; watching the driver maneuver the road at 25 to 40 kilometers per hour (I wonder if he’s trying to make up for lost time); watching the rain; watching the wipers slap it away from the windshield; watching the kilometers roll by as we proceed perilously close to the edge of the single-lane, rutted, muddy path with occasional wide spots to accommodate oncoming or passing vehicles; observing again the absence of guard rails that might otherwise separate us from this semi-firm terra firma and the black slope that is only feet or inches away. The Tibetan continues his chant. “Om mane padme hum. Om mane padme hum. Om mane padme hum.” Amen, Brother. At daybreak, we make our first stop, and Ofir offers to trade seats with me. “I’ve seen your head bounce around up there,” he says. With his generosity, I sleep for the first time in nearly 24 hours. |
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Spectacular, treacherous Leh-Manali Highway—Himalayan Mountains, India
Think of television advertisements for sport utility vehicles, bouncing and rushing through the wild. Multiply that rough and tumble terrain by at least a factor of five, and you have the Leh-Manali Highway.
Except for the last 50 kilometers into Leh where two lanes of asphalt are reasonably smooth and flat, the Leh-Manali Highway is one lane of asphalt—at best. Often, the asphalt, lain only a couple inches thick over a thin, unstable base of stones and dirt, is pocked with potholes from falling rocks above or heaving of freezing-and-thawing ground beneath. More often, the macadam surface is washed completely away, leaving rough cobble, like driving in a stream bed with or without mountain runoff. In many places, the road surface is natural rock, stone, dirt, and mud formed and constantly re-formed by thousands of tires on trucks, buses, SUVs, motorcycles, and bicycles. Water runs or rushes in rills where tires have rolled until reaching a place to ripple over the edge and enhance erosion. In the high-altitude desert known as Morey Plains, a new road is under construction while drivers fan out and make their own path. Last year, Morey Plains was dry and yellow dust rose from tires, cutting visibility to 100 yards; this year, the soil ranges from firm damp to mud to water holes. In all, it’s a road that would make Western road commissioners cringe. This 480-kilometer (300 miles) stretch of highway is the only road between Manali and Leh, and it’s one of the most spectacular and treacherous in the world. Rhotung Pass, the first mountain pass north of Manali, is so named “the place of death” because of its geological character—large granite boulders loosely held in place by unsteady and often-rain-soaked mud partially covered by short-rooted vegetation—that makes rock slides and mud slides common occurrences. Last year, when I traveled this road in a private SUV, I saw several cars and trucks at the bottom of ravines, their bodies bashed from tumbling hundreds of feet. This year, I see no such demise, and the traffic volume seems measurably less. There is evidence of work. Trucks and cars wait for many minutes while a crane or dozer pushes rocks or dirt in what is really a temporary if not futile attempt to infringe upon Nature. But this is shared space and the goods must get through. So the road construction equipment works for awhile, then it sits idle while the traffic passes. Short stretches of new asphalt last no more than three to five kilometers then give way to the standard: unforgiving ruts and ridges and cobble that rattle innards and dislodge kidneys. The Border Roads Organization is responsible for this road where cement trucks could not possibly travel. Here and there, semi-heavy equipment are either active or idle: bulldozers, cranes with scoop buckets, asphalt mixers and layers, small cement mixers, flattening rollers. But mostly, the work is done by “handiworkers,” hardy mountain people who use pickaxes to loosen dirt, pikes to dislodge rock, hammers to split rock into stones for road bed, and shovels to mix and buckets to haul concrete. By Western standards, the task is antiquated. But this highway is only open three or four months each year—and even then mounds of compressed snow, several feet tall, linger and melt well into August. For the fall, winter, and spring, it’s Nature’s playground, and Nature has her way with it, often washing away in a season what humans have crafted over years. This is especially true south of Upshi, about 70 to 80 kilometers from Leh. Here, last year, the asphalt had been a very nice two-lane stretch. That was before the killer flood of August 6, 2010, roared through. This area must have been a place where it gathered initial force, thundering through a narrow canyon of red rock. Here, last year when I passed through, the Indus River had lolled comfortably within its banks only a few feet beside this stretch of the Leh-Manali Highway. Not so this year. Now, much of this road is as rugged as at the highest mountain passes. The greatest roughness is at places where mountain valleys reach perpendicular to our left as the river runs parallel to our right. These valleys would be troughs where water from ridges on both sides would wash and gather momentum to continue its plunge to the river below. At one spot, I look to a stretch of unaffected asphalt one hundred meters ahead. That road is to our right and several feet below us. Realization hits. We’re driving atop 15 feet of dirt and rock and stone that was up there, in the ravine, last year then washed to here now. It’s as if Mother Nature has said, “Here, drive on this for awhile.” Until someone with a dozer comes along to clear it away and then lay a new strip of asphalt. At another spot, the roadway is one-and-a-half lanes wide. Its riverside edge is a serrated edge where neighboring bits have been washed away, leaving a thin layer of stone slab and asphalt hanging and forming what is now the new riverbank. Someone has placed a line of blocks to keep vehicles from venturing too close. Yet, the people are at work too. They are moving the rubble, carrying it and piling it to make stone walls that they encase with wire mesh. They are doing this by hand, hoping to make a difference—to stop Mother Nature?—next time. But to apply a truism from baseball: “Mother Nature bats last.” And she always wins, no matter what humans do or attempt to do to contain her. Sometimes she wins the game with a suicide-squeeze bunt in the bottom of the ninth inning. Here, she won with a series of grand slams in a lopsided slugfest. At the same time, the sweetest fruit is out on the limb. And the mountain majesty manifested here in the Himalayas is magnificent. Worth the drive. Worth the risk. Worth every over-the-cliff view on hairpin turns. Worth seeing. Read Flat tire and rock slide,
a story about returning from Leh to Manali on the Leh-Manali Highway. |
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Stupas, chortans, and truck art—Leh-Manali Highway, India; Monday, August 8, and Tuesday, August 9
Perhaps because of the danger of driving this route, roadside stupas and chortans abound.
Stupas are enterable shrines, generally larger, such as the blue-tiled structure, surrounded by weathered Tibetan prayer flags at TanglangLa, the world’s second highest motorable pass with an elevation of 5,328 meters (17,582 feet). Chortans are memorials to the deceased. Smaller ones are often erected at wide spots on the edges of highways with tremendous vistas in the background. In and near villages, chortans might be quite large, topped with a concrete bulb to mark the gravesite of a famous person. While nature and holy people display their handicraft here, the truck drivers are not to be outdone. Stopping for construction or waiting for traffic jams to clear provides an opportunity to appreciate the art with which these mountain drivers adorn their trucks, which are, literally, their vehicle and their vessel with a cot for sleeping in the cab. |
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The term "Use Dipper At Night" refers to use "dim" or "low-beam" headlights, a courtesy of the road that many Indian drivers don't practice either when following or meeting another vehicle. This blinding action is especially dangerous on mountain roads.
The other universal rear-end message is "Blow Horn," a signal to announce the presence of an overtaking vehicle. Many drivers of vehicles ahead will turn on their right turn signal to indicate it's safe to pass ... on the right, of course. A pair of feminine blue eyes, apparently a decal, is a common sexy accessory. |
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Drama at the dhaba—Leh-Manali Highway, India; Monday, August 8, and Tuesday, August 9
Around noon, Ramlal announces, through Shoeb who translates, that his neck is sore and he is unable to drive. He says we will stop for night in Sarchu. The young Israelis, Germans, and Koreans—all in their early 20s—are disappointed. The military man, speaking in Hindi, says that won’t work for him because he has to report for duty the next morning. Shoeb, at age 27, observes and helps the passengers understand. I’m ambivalent, wanting to get to Leh and also desirous of spending the afternoon and night in the mountains. In the back, the Tibetan chants, “Om mane padme hum. Om mane padme hum. Om mane padme hum.”
Ramlal pulls into a tent compound where tourists and trekkers can rent single, small group, or dormitory accommodations. The cost is 1800 rupees per person in dormitories, the cheapest fare. “No way,” the youths protest, not wanting to spend that much money. “What about a dhaba?” I suggest, having learned last year that the cost would be much, much less. “100 rupees,” says the military man, who has now taken the kitchen chair so I can sleep in his couch seat. That sounds good to everyone, although the youth still express their wish to arrive in Leh yet that night. On the opposite side of Sarchu, we stop in a place where four yurts serve as three dhabas and a place that sells “English beer and wine.” Ramlal and the military man hail a truck driver who stops. The military man grabs his gear and climbs in, on his own to Leh. The Tibetan wanders off. |
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The youths and I check out where we will sleep. The Indian woman who operates this business, Ex-Army Dhaba and Fouji Restaurant, suggests two rooms in a back building made of silver corrugated tin: one room for the males and one for the females.
I ask, through Shoeb, if I can sleep in the yurt. Yes, she replies but it will be noisy there. I soon surmise that she thinks I want to sleep there now, in the daytime—which actually sounds like a very good idea. But, no, I’m expressing my preference to sleep under canvas, not tin, tonight. |
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Ramlal makes himself comfortable in front of the beer and wine shop. With two other Indian men, sitting on plastic chairs at a plastic table, typical of the dhabas, they chat in Hindi and laugh. The youths grumble. “If his neck hurts, why isn’t he resting? Why is he just sitting there? Why isn’t he taking medicine? Is he drinking?”
Ofir is most vocal, “I paid good money to get to Leh tonight. Now I have to pay more to stay here. I don’t have much days left on my trip. Why can’t he rest now, and we go again in three or four hours?” The answer comes floating through Shoeb who reports that someone has said driving in Ladakh at night is prohibited. Good regulation, I think. I also admit that, at first, I questioned Ramlal’s actions, and I ask Shoeb to speak with him directly about sitting here with his friends and not resting. Ramlal repeats that he is not well. He adds that he got only one hour of sleep the night of our departure and that if he goes to sleep now he will wake up, unable to sleep in the middle of the night. He affirms that we will stay here and leave early in the morning. End of discussion. I’m sitting at the same table with them, and the scene brings back images of times in the U.S. when friends and I have sat and talked and shared a drink or two as a way to relax—even when one or another is not feeling well. If I were in Ramlal’s shoes, I’d likely be doing as he is now. |
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Meanwhile, Ofir and Roy are taking action. They are atop the coach, downloading everyone’s packs. They prepare their gear and stand or sit in plastic chairs by the side of the road, thumbs extended. If the military man can go in a truck, why can’t we, they seem to say. They are foreign civilians comes the answer from a few drivers who stop, and most of the trucks on the road are on contracted commission with the Indian army. No civilians allowed. Yet, they find a gas hauler who is willing to take them—and one more person, if they really want to go.
Shoeb seriously considers this option. He talks with Ofir and Roy, who are ready to go, and the driver. Yet, he wavers. I approach and listen. “I will miss you. You are our translator and very valuable here,” I say. “Yes, I have been thinking of that too.” “The women and I would have a hard time talking with the driver,” I add. “Maybe we can get more trucks to stop,” says Ofir. “Maybe we can all go.” Over the next 15 or 20 minutes, Ofir and Roy hail another truck driver who is willing to take three people for a cost of 100 rupees and a private driver who has room in his SUV for one or two. The four of us confer. “We can’t make this decision alone,” I say. “We have to talk to the women.” Shoeb says to me, “Will you explain?” Inside the yurt, our five female companions have unpacked their sleeping bags and are either resting or sleeping, unaware of the male discussion that has been going on outside. I explain the situation and our options. In the meantime, the private driver leaves, leaving us with two willing truck drivers and not enough seats for everyone. “Do you really want to split up?” I ask. Then, for emphasis, “Do you want to travel, either two or three together, with a truck driver you don’t know?” They don’t. In my opinion, that settles it. Ofir and Roy are welcome to go if they want. I certainly hope that Shoeb will stay. And I’ve already decided that I won’t leave until all the women do, which probably means with Ramlal in the coach tomorrow morning. I say this, too, and they express gratitude with either “thank you” or a smile and nod. In the end, we all stay. I’m glad. Last year, I wanted to sleep in a dhaba but that wasn’t in the cards. It wasn’t in the cards this year either, but a deity with higher power reshuffled the deck. Being here for several hours of daylight gives me a chance to rest and take photos of these majestic mountains. The geological striations—mostly vertical or arched—exhibit evidence of the tectonic upheaval that must have occurred here eons ago. Shoeb is delighted with this extra night in the mountains and goes for a long walk to breathe in the vistas lit by a nearly full moon. He sleeps alone in one of the tin-building rooms. The rest of us are in the yurt. The meal of rice, dal, chapatti, and chai, prepared by the man and woman who operate this dhaba, is good, warming, comforting. Ramlal left his companions while the afternoon was still in its mid-time. He’s been sleeping maybe three hours when I crash at 7:00. Roy is already asleep. Lisa, Cosima, Anna from Germany, and Anna from Korea bed down about the same time as I. Ofir is reading, and Yujin is writing in what could be her journal. I wonder what she might be recording about today’s events. My thoughts are of the team building and joining together that we experienced this day—even, through eye contact, with the Tibetan who, tonight, sleeps in the coach, warmed by blankets from inside the dhaba. Roy awakens me at 4:45. “Robert. Robert. Come. It is time to get up.” Ofir, who was so generous with his seat on the coach yesterday, is standing at the driver’s feet. “Driver. Driver. Come on. Get up now. You say we leave at five. It is almost five. We go now.” The driver doesn’t move or make a sound. Ofir persists. “Six,” says the driver. “But yesterday you say we leave at five.” “Six.” Ofir plays music on his mobile. Still in my sleeping bag, under a dhaba blanket, I’ve had enough. “Ofir, back off.” “What?” I sit up and look at the youth. “Back off. If he says we leave at six, we leave at six. Now back off.” “But what if he say six now and we don’t leave at six, or seven, or eight? Then we are here all day.” “I don’t’ know what’s going to happen at six, but it’s obvious he’s not getting up and we aren’t leaving now, so just back off and wait.” |
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I recline, pull the dhaba blanket over my face to block the overhead small fluorescent light that’s now illuminating the room. I pray for resolution as the others pack their gear.
Ten or fifteen minutes later, I go in search of Shoeb. He’s still under his blanket in the tin room but awake. Ofir enters, and the three of us talk until Ofir and I reach the point of no longer listening to each other. From outside comes the sound of an engine cranking. The engine rumbles to life. It’s our coach. Ramlal is up. More discussion is useless so we return to our gear and make sure we are ready when the driver is ready. We depart at five minutes before 6:00. Later, I apologize to Ofir, “I could have spoken more kindly to you this morning.” He apologizes too. “You’re a good man,” I add, meaning every word, verbalizing my observations of him over the last 30-some hours. “You have a generous heart and a caring spirit. You will be a great leader one day … after you learn more patience and the soul of money.” I pause. “What is your chosen career?” “I don’t know. I’m hoping to find out while in India.” We let the conversation go at that. I’m hoping to find out a lot about me on this trip to India too. Last night, Shoeb called me “an elder.” This morning, in the heat of discussion, Ofir said, “You’re old.” They were both right. At those precise moments, I was acting either like a wise elder or an impatient old man. Patience—and the consciousness to engage unplanned opportunities. Perhaps this drama at the dhaba will teach some of that fine quality to both of us. |
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Our chosen seats—Manali Luxury Coach
A Course in Miracles says: “His [yours and my] power of decision is the determiner of every situation in which he [you and me] seems to find himself [ourselves] by chance or accident. No accident nor chance is possible within the universe as God created it.” (Chapter 21, II. The Responsibility of Sight)
Each of us aboard this coach chose our own seat, or so I was told by the booking clerk in Manali, except for me who got the only seat left—although, I could have chosen to be on a Yeti Travel coach instead of this one. Contemplating the events and discussions of yesterday and this morning, it occurs to me that our selected seats on this coach have cast us into perfectly orchestrated roles for the parts we played in the drama at the dhaba. |
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The driver is the driver, of course. He’s the protagonist, the leader, the man at the wheel, the person in charge like it or not.
Seated next to him in the shotgun seat is Ofir, the antagonist, who, if he could, would have driven the driver. Ofir’s companion and supporting character, Roy, is seated in the middle of the next row, in the closest seat possible that gives them optimal opportunity for conversation. Now that the Indian military man has left, the kitchen chair is folded and stowed on the aisle floor, and I’m in seat #10. Cast as Ramlal’s supporter, I sit where I can watch the action ahead and observe the reactions of those behind me. Shoeb is directly behind the driver. He’s the “fifth business,” the character who moves freely among everyone, the one whose role—as translator—is invaluable to progress our dialogue toward denouement. The three German women and the two Korean women, sitting toward the rear, are the supporting cast. At the dhaba, they were not part of the initial action but were called upon to speak their lines and participate in the decision as the plot thickened. And then there’s the Tibetan, our one-person chorus from whom the undercurrent of spiritual acceptance and love emanates. Om mane padme hum. |
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The Tibetan departs—Leh-Manali Highway, Morey Plains, India; Tuesday, August 9, 2011, mid-afternoon
A loud voice from the back of the coach shatters the arrhythmic rattle and jolt of our coach and the tantric Indian music playing on the coach’s CD player. Ramlal touches the brakes. The voice speaks again. It’s the Tibetan, he’s clutching his gear and moving forward in the aisle.
The coach stops. He says something, and Ramlal nods. Ofir tips his seat forward and moves out of the way. The Tibetan gets off the coach. We are in the middle of nowhere—literally. For as far as the eye can see in all directions, there is nothing to see except plains, scattered ground vegetation, and distant mountains. The Tibetan turns for a moment. He and I make eye contact, which we have done often this day. Then he turns and walks away. How far will he have to walk to reach a place that might be considered a destination? Or does distance and destination matter to those who are simply on their journey? |
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Arrival in Leh—Leh/Ladakh, India; Tuesday, August 9, 2011, 5:00 pm
To me, late afternoon is a great time to arrive in Leh. The sun is still up. The high mid-day heat is dissipating. It’s much better than arriving sometime late, late last night had we persevered. Much better than not making it all if our unwell, unrested driver had fallen asleep at the wheel.
We disembark at the bus stand, each one or two or three going our own way. The odds of ever seeing each other again are minimal. Such is the way of wayfaring strangers. This is the bus stand in Leh. Learning my lesson in Manali, I ask a bus stand manager about the government buses, another way out of Leh that has come recommended by people who live in Ladakh. He directs me to one particular bus 100 feet away. Inside, the bus driver is resting, but in excellent English, he gives me particulars about departure time and location. He also directs me to the office where I can book a seat. Then I walk about one hour, mostly uphill and resting frequently, toward Jorchung Guest House where I had stayed last year. It’s the only place I know—and maybe the ultramarathoners for this year’s event are there. Along the way, I ask several people for confirmation of my directions. Two of them are a pair of school girls in uniform who speak excellent English and offer to carry my carry-on bag for snacks. I gratefully let them as we share names and talk about America, Leh, and their school. The Jorchung has one room, the worker there I recognize from last year tells me. “Boss come,” he says. “I wait.” And I rest and drink a lot of water. “No room. Boss no come,” he says a few minutes later. I tell him I’m going to rest longer. “Boss no come. No room.” I show him pictures I’ve stored on my camera’s memory card from last year. First of Rajat, who arranged for us to be here then. “Do you know him?” I honestly don’t know if his reply, “No,” means that he doesn’t know Rajat or that he doesn’t want to try to communicate with me in English. When I show him the picture of Liz, a woman from France who had stayed here at the same time and had introduced me to the nearby Tibetan Children’s Village where she sponsors a Tibetan elder and a schoolchild, his answer is the same. “Where else can I stay?” I ask. Apparently, he’s heard this question enough to understand it, and he points next door to the Kanika Guest House, a most pleasant, welcoming place. I stop at the first building, which, judging by several pairs of flip-flops near the door, is a residence. At the building that looks like a low-level hotel, a woman sitting at a table under a canopy directs me back to the first building. Half way there, a lovely young woman greets me with a smile. She has one room for the next three nights. That’s fine. I’ll be staying in Leh for about a week, but I can find alternative lodging later. I’ve walked enough at this elevation of 12,000 feet— with gear—this afternoon. Check-in is casual with no papers to sign or forms to fill out until the next morning when I have to complete an official government document with my passport number and visa number, expiration dates, and so on. “Do you have wifi?” I ask, expecting that they don’t. “They do,” she says in reference to the woman I first spoke with and her companions. “They are helping people rebuild their homes,” she adds. The woman is Rekhe, director of operations here for the non-governmental organization Seeds India. We talk briefly and agree to talk more another day. As for wifi, the signal is unreliable, and she recommends that I do as they do: go to an Internet café in the town centre. That’s okay. This connection with people here in this NGO is more valuable. As is the affirmation that, once again, I’ve landed in the most perfect spot in the midst of the most perfect people and they will prove to be valuable resources of information about Leh's recovery from last year's flood, which I came to learn about. Looking back on the events of the last 40 hours, I’m assured that I have, indeed, been traveling under angels’ wings. In spite of my intentions in Delhi and self-misdirection in Manali, I’m here. For the next day, I eschew the ethereal Ethernet and take care of earthly tasks of sleeping well, eating well, washing clothes, and writing these stories of Delhi and Manali and companions along the way. Read Flat tire and rock slide,
a story about returning from Leh to Manali on the Leh-Manali Highway. |