Little Tibet (Part I: Motorbikes and the Dalai Lama)

It's always a bit tricky to arrive in an unknown city and to have to find a hotel at an acceptable price, without being cheated by taxi drivers. But my arrival in Leh was one of the most difficult I've had; luckily, I could share the experience with a Latvian guy had met on the bus. After a sleepless night and 20 hours of torture on bumpy, windy roads, we arrived in sleepy Leh at around 11 p.m. The taxis, of course, charged astronomic prices. So we started walking around looking for a hotel, carrying our heavy bags, and with no sun by which we could orient ourselves. After such a big journey, without having had a proper meal in 24h, all I wanted was to find a bed as soon as possible. We must have walked the wrong way, because we found only few hotels, all closed. The only people we met on the almost deserted streets were fellow travelers, who were just as lost as we were, and drunken locals, who were either incapable or unwilling to show us the way. We went into the one place where there was light, a travel agency where men, again drunk, said they would help us and call a taxi, which eventually, they didn’t. We started walking again, with still no idea of where we were, having spent more than one hour wandering around without any result. As I was about to give up and sleep somewhere on the streets, I saw a shooting star. I wished we could somehow find a place to stay very soon; not even one minute later, a car stopped, and some young men offered us to drive us to their hotel, where we could spend the night for a reasonable price. Hallelujah!

I needed two days to recover from the heavy journey, and probably partly to get used to the altitude. Leh, the capital of the state of Ladakh, lies in the Indus valley, on a plateau at around 3500m altitude. Ladakh is a desert, mostly arid and rocky, but the city itself is very green, with plenty of trees. The wide valley is surrounded by high mountains with white snow-capped peaks. Because of the altitude, the sky is stark blue. It really looks - and, in a way, is, or used to be - like some kind of hidden paradise, cut off from the rest of the world. Ladakhi culture is similar to Tibetan culture, for which the region earns its nickname "Little Tibet". The majority of Ladakhis are Buddhists (although there's a significant number of Muslims). The valley is dotted with Buddhist monuments, like Stupas (mound-like structures containing relics) and Gompas (monasteries). The climate is extremely dry, with around 300 days of sun a year, and an annual rainfall of only 90mm (for comparison, Belgium gets about 800mm a year). The winters get extremely cold, with temperatures that can reach below -20°C, and in summer it can get as hot as 30°C.

Leh

In Leh, I finally wanted to do something I had become mildly obsessed with: driving around on a motorbike. The two-wheelers are probably the main means of private transportation in India - whole families on one bike are more rule than exception - and seeing all these people on their machines had somehow made me eager to try it myself. Renting a motorbike is one of the common activities in Leh. Of course, you need a license, but of course, you really don't. Quite a few people had told me it was fairly easy to learn how to drive, and great fun. Thanks to my experience on the scooter in the South, I felt pretty confident about facing the local traffic, which is much less chaotic there than in the plains. All I needed was partners in crime. These I found easily; after three days, I agreed with three Israeli guys to rent two bikes for the day. After a couple of hours of practicing individually - the others had very little or no experience either - we set out to explore some villages in the valley. I was a bit scared at first; it felt a bit like madness to do my first hours of biking in India, in the mountains, with someone on the back. But as soon as I mastered the gears, my confidence grew quickly, and I was really able to enjoy it. Driving the bike in the Indus valley around Leh is a great way to appreciate the scenery. The roads are broad and good, with little traffic. You can easily explore small villages, and drive up to one of the many temples and monasteries, which usually offer magnificent views of the valley. The others were leaving on a longer trip the next day, and invited me to join them. I regretfully declined their offer, because I had my mind set on something else. The Dalai Lama was giving teachings in the neighboring Nubra valley, starting two days later. A French friend had gone to this kind of teachings before, and he said it was a very special experience. Moreover, the Nubra valley seemed like a pretty interesting place to visit, as it is even more isolated than Leh; you need a permit to get in, which is valid only 7 days. To get to the Nubra valley from Leh by road, one needs to cross the pass of Khardung La, at 5602 m. This is sold as "the highest motorable pass in the world", although there seems to be some controversy about that. Clouds spoiled the view that day, but the altitude could certainly be felt. The bus drive was once again magnificent. Again, like from Manali to Leh, I spent part of the journey on the roof. I call it first class: the luggage makes far more comfortable seats than the ones inside, and the view is beyond comparison. Nubra valley, north from the Indus valley, looks even more barren than the latter. The rocks have a darker color, and there is less (human-grown) vegetation. This makes the bright green patches around villages the more surprising.

Nubra Valley

We arrived in Sumur, the village where the Dalai Lama teachings would start the next day, around noon. Most of the villagers were waiting for His Holiness' arrival, dressed in their fascinating traditional clothing: black robes with purple scarves and belts and very special high hats, with upward bending flaps on the sides. Unfortunately, since people told us how, predictably, all the hotels were packed, we missed the arrival because we decided to look for rooms first. After a lot of hassle, we - your faithful narrator, the French guy, a Latvian girl and a Spanish couple - ended up sleeping on the ground in a tent in some family's garden. We walked into their home quite awkwardly, thinking it was a guest house, but they gave us tea and food right away, and invited us to sleep and eat there. We could pay them how much we wanted; my first encounter with Ladakhi hospitality. They were extremely cheerful, laughing all the time, and all of us felt right at home.

People waiting for the Dalai Lama

We went to bed early to get up on time for the teachings the next morning. A podium was set up on a field next to the local monastery. Foreigners got a reserved area, just left from the podium, where an English translation would be heard through speakers. We got there early enough to be on the second row. There was some uncertainty as to at what time the Dalai Lama would make his appearance; in a typical Indian fashion, different people had told us different things. After roughly two hours, the tension was rising; more and more monks and local people were arriving, and last-minute adjustments (like installing a fan for His Holiness) were made. Then every body stood up, and the moment had come: the Dalai Lama entered the stage. I rejoiced at the sight of him; I was getting my revenge for having missed him at his birthday in Dharamsala. After greeting the crowd, the Dalai Lama sat down cross-legged on his throne-like chair. He started talking in his warm baritone voice. What struck me right away was his matter-of-fact way of talking. I had expected him to be speaking in an "enlightened" way, calmly, and smiling, telling us to be good to each other and all that. Instead, he had the self-assured attitude of a teacher, something like "Okay, guys, listen to me. If you want to be a good person, do this and that...". I must admit I didn't really listen to the content of what he was saying. In fact, I quickly realized, "wait a minute... I never liked going to lectures, and even less to church, and this is kind of a mix between both; what am I doing here?". The boring way of talking of the interpreter didn't make things better. So I started walking around in the crowd. The attitude of the audience, too, was not what I had expected. I had thought they would all be listening with open mouth, not wanting to miss one word of what their spiritual leader was saying. But the atmosphere was much more relaxed than that. A couple of thousand had gathered, of all ages. Most of the people were listening, but many were chattering with each other. I saw more than one monk shamelessly dozing off. There was a constant moving of people leaving, arriving or just walking around. It reminded me a bit of a music festival in Europe (without the beer, drugs and bikinis, that is), where people gather as much to socialize as to listen to the act. Just in front of the Dalai Lama sit the monks. The first rows behind that are mainly occupied by elderly people. These are the most fascinating persons to watch, with their Mongolian features, purplish skin because of the altitude, and their traditional robes and hats. Their weathered and incredibly wrinkled faces tell the stories of years of living in an extreme climate and working on the land. Some of them are holding and spinning a prayer wheel, or shifting the beads of a rosary. Walking around there, between the rows of Ladakhi spectators, was a truly special experience. At some moments, the audience started reciting mantras along with the Dalai Lama, which created a bit more of a religious atmosphere.

(Unfortunately, I don't have pictures of the teachings; we only took the camera of my Spanish friends, who will send me the pics when they get back)

The lecture lasted about two hours. Afterwards, we all agreed that we were very glad to have been there, but that we didn't feel the need to go back the next day. We decided to hitch-hike to Diskit, the capital of the district. Diskit houses a large and beautiful white-washed monastery and a huge, newly-built Buddha statue of 100 ft (about 30 m) high, which was to be inaugurated by the Dalai Lama two days later. It represents the Future Buddha; this ascetic is expected to be a modern guy, as he is portrayed as sitting on a chair. We visited both the statue and the monastery that same afternoon, and decided to go back to Leh the next day.

The next morning, after a well-deserved night of sleep in a real bed, we faced a typically Indian situation. Although three independent sources had told us there would be a bus at 7 a.m., there was no bus to be found. Luckily, there was a shared Jeep available at an acceptable price, and we got back to Leh without too much trouble.

Before I close this chapter, I would like to say something more about Ladakh. It's a very special region that has fascinated many people. One of those people is Helena Norberg-Hodge, the author of the book "Ancient Futures". She was one of the first foreigners to visit Ladakh when it was opened in the seventies, and spent a lot of time living there, having learned their language. After 16 years, she wrote a book about the region, and about the negative changes development brings about. Being so isolated, the people of Ladakh have enjoyed a simple lifestyle until very recently. They lived almost entirely of the land, creating no waste at all. The Ladakhi toilet, for instance, is brilliant in its simplicity. It's just a deep hole, usually on the first floor. When one has done his business, he simply covers it up with earth, which masks the odor perfectly; no water is needed. The dung is then used for the fields. The farming is done mainly during the summer months, as the winter is too harsh. A big part of the year, they have plenty of spare time for festivals. Working together on the land in summer and celebrating during winter, Ladakhis have an extremely close-knit community. According to the author, development has brought about many negative things, like pollution and conflicts. A documentary, based on the book, can be found on the internet (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VPT3ILCYGfk). Many critics say Norberg-Hodge's story is one-sided. I agree with that; she fails to emphasize the downsides of such a "primitive" lifestyle, like low life expectancy and high infant mortality. Nevertheless, I think the core of her message is that - as we all know - development doesn't only bring good things, and more importantly, that there's a number of things we can learn from how things were done in the past. What's more, I have experienced myself the Ladakhi hospitality, kindness and cheerfulness. I have never met people who radiate so much happiness and joy of life. Ladakh, along with Helena Norberg-Hodge's book, has certainly made me think.

The Road

In my previous story, I told you how I wanted to go from Manali to Leh, on one of the highest and most beautiful roads in the world. The Road crosses four high passes, at 3978m, 4950m, 5060m and 5328m; the last one is the second highest motorable pass in the world. Just before I arrived in Manali, heavy rain- and snowfall had caused a huge landslide at the first pass, Rothang-La, a mere 50km from there. A French family had just managed to get back from the other side of the pass, bringing horror stories about the Road. They had been underway for three days instead of one, blocked behind the pass and forced to sleep in the jeep at night. At some point, they had to drive through the snow. The driver, drunk and inexperienced, was trembling with fear. The French father, who luckily had experience in driving in the snow in the Alps, pushed the driver aside and took the wheel. The other passengers thanked him afterwards for having saved their lives.

There are several options for traveling from Manali to Leh. By far the cheapest option is to take two government buses in two days, with one overnight stay in a village in between. To save money, and because of my mistrust for private companies, I initially planned to do it that way. The biggest problem with private companies is that they sell you a ticket and send out their vehicles, hoping that the pass will be unblocked by the time they get there. One guy told me how when he got to the pass, a fuel truck had broken down, blocking the road just at the spot where the landslide had just been cleared. The driver told the passengers they could walk to the other side of the landslide, where another bus would be waiting. So they walked across, in the rain, while big rocks were rolling down the mountain - just to find out there was no-one waiting for them there.

I ended up spending ten days in Manali, waiting for the Road to open. In the meantime, more and more people told me crazy stories about their journeys. Since I was waiting, I didn't plan anything, so I didn't do much. Luckily, I was at the best guest house I have been until now, with some great people with whom I did some small walks to waterfalls and other parts of town. All in all, even though I was waiting, I had a very good time.

Wanting to take the government bus to Leh, every morning I went to the bus stand to inform about the state of the Road. And every morning, the same apathetic clerk told me that it was closed, answering "I don't know" to any other question. At some point, I lost my temper, telling him it was his job to answer my questions. Even though I didn't expect him to be pleased with my comments, I was pretty shocked when all of a sudden a fist appeared through the hole in the booth window, after which he took a stick and started rushing outside, but then he seemed to regain his senses and sat down again. I have no problem to admit that I was out of line, but I have no idea why he reacted with so aggressively. After that, tired of having to face the same man every day and having lost enough time already, I decided I would take a minibus. This is much more expensive than the local bus, but cheaper and less bumpy than a jeep, and it gets you there in one long, twenty hour drive. As soon as the reports about the Road got better, I booked a bus for the next night. I was finally going to Leh. Or was I?

In theory, the buses leave at 2am, but the travel agent warned me that they usually came "a bit later". Roughly 30 people gathered at the pick-up point. Around 2.30, minibuses started to arrive, picking up small groups of passengers. So the group shrunk gradually, until... there was no-one left but me. So there I was, at 3am, sitting on the steps of the town temple, all alone except for half a dozen dogs, who found it desirable to fight their little gang wars right in front of me. Maybe it was just not meant to be, I thought. Maybe something bad would happen if I got on that road. But after another 15 minutes of waiting, the minibus finally showed up. I was on my way to Ladakh, finally!

But first, we had to get over that infamous pass. Just as I got in the minibus, a light rain started falling, tempering my relief. The road that leads up to Rothang-La is pretty good at first, but it gradually gets worse as it approaches the pass. At some point, not far before the landslide, we got stuck in the mud. We got out in the rain to push the bus; the only thing we accomplished is that we ruined a tire. Responding quickly to the situation, the driver got out and smoked a cigarette, while the traffic was piling up behind us. After the driver's well-deserved break, and under gentle pressure of the people behind, we pushed the bus aside (and believe me, pushing a minibus with a flat tire out of the mud is not easy) and replaced the tire. We were finally ready to cross that wretched Rothang pass.

The Rothang pass is by far the worst part of the whole road. Both times I crossed, it was rainy and foggy. There is no vegetation whatsoever; the mountain seems to be made out of mud, sprinkled with rocks. The Road, which doesn't deserve its name at all at that point, is just the same: mud and rocks. The car jolts its way through, tackling pointy rocks, deep mud and potholes with great difficulty. At the point where the landslide occurred, the road was completely swept away, and they just seem to have dug the road on the landslide. The combination of destruction, lack of vegetation, rain and fog makes the place look like a war zone, a nightmare. When I passed on my way back to Manali, the Rothang pass was shrouded in one of the densest fogs I have ever seen. The visibility was reduced to less than ten meters, challenging the driver, who had been behind the wheel for 18 hours. The people in the car, who had been cheerful throughout the journey, had suddenly grown very, very silent - the fear was palpable.

I admit; the Road is a bit of a suicide. There's only one driver for the twenty-hour journey, with very few pauses, in extremely difficult circumstances. The road gets very bad every time you get close to a pass. Very often, rivers cross the road, or even adopt it as riverbed for a couple of meters. Both times I did the journey, we had to wait three or four times because they were clearing a fresh landslide from the road with (sometimes unbelievably old and worn out) bulldozers. The most extreme moment was when, just after we saw a worker dodging an enormous rock rolling of the mountain, we passed at the exact same spot. But in spite of all this, many people take the risk every year, and I haven't heard of any tragedies - although I can't really imagine nothing bad ever happens. In fact, in other parts of Ladakh, I have seen some wrecked Jeeps and buses in the valleys.

But I survived, and it was more than worth it. I was a bit afraid of the possible killer combination of motion and altitude sickness, but thanks to some medication, I didn't feel too bad. The views are absolutely superb. Ladakh is a very arid region, with very rugged landscapes. Only in the valleys, where the melting snow forms broad rivers, bright green patches are visible where people are irrigating the land. So imagine these rough, brown-red mountains, with rivers and greenery in the valley, and white peaks in the distance. At some point, I climbed on the roof of the minibus; being completely surrounded by the landscape is breathtaking.

Yes, the Road...If you're unlucky, it turns into a nightmare. But when the skies are clear and the passes are open, it's an orgy of beauty, a banquet of sights - an amazing twenty-hour torture, which I gladly underwent twice. And it takes you to Ladakh, that region nick-named Little Tibet I knew little about. I was about to discover it, and be pleasantly surprised...


Flat tire on the Rothang pass...




Some of the views on the Road!!

Ancient caves, dried-up lakes and a Golden Temple

On the night of my third day in Mumbai, I had a train to Aurangabad, a city in the same state of Maharastra. I was on my way to Delhi, and wanted to get there as soon as possible to go further north. The initial, crazy plan was this: night train to Aurangabad, one day there, night bus to Ahmedabad, one day there, night train to Udaipur, two days and one night there, night bus to Ajmer, one day there, night train to Delhi. That's three nights in public transport, one night in a hotel, two nights in public transport. A couple of facts altered my initial plan. One: it was darn crazy. Also, the bus between Aurangabad and Ahmedabad turned out to take 15 hours; night buses are so horrible that I preferred to take two night trains, going back to Mumbai first. And last but not least, I had gotten pretty ill in Mumbai. I spent the night in the train to Aurangabad shivering like hell first, despite being in my sleeping bag with all my clothes on, and glowing with heat after, even though I had taken off my sleeping bag and almost all my clothes.

The purpose of my visit to Aurangabad was the Ajanta caves. These Buddhist and Hindu sanctuaries, carved out of the rocks in the 2nd-1st century BC and 5th century AD, are one of the absolute artistic highlights in India. Since I was ill, I decided I would also visit the nearer by Ellora cave, staying one night in Aurangabad. Since I had come all the way to see the caves, I was determined to do so, despite my condition. I had met an Australian guy on the trains who had the same plans, so I would have some company, which is always more enjoyable. Helped by the necessary medication, I visited the Ellora and Ajanta caves on two consecutive days. The Ellora caves were beautiful and impressive - especially the Kailasanatha temple, which is said to be the largest monolithic structure in Asia - but I was much more impressed by Ajanta. The location is amazing: the caves were carved out of the outer side of a horseshoe-shaped valley. They were forgotten for many centuries, until a British hunting party stumbled upon the site in 1819. But the location is far from being the only fascinating aspect of the Ajanta caves. Where at the Ellora caves it's all about the carvings, the walls of the Ajanta caves are decorated with extraordinarily fine paintings, made with a unique technique involving clay and dung, as well as minerals and plants. Walking around there in the dark cavesm exploring the murals with a flashlight, gives a taste of how it must have been for the discoverers to unveil all those forgotten treasures. Thanks to the medication, I was able to enjoy the caves, but both times, by the times I got back to Aurangabad my fever rose again.

A night train took me back to Mumbai, where I spent another day. Since I felt good that day, and it didn't rain, for once, I visited Elephanta island. This island, a couple of km off the coast, houses yet another collection of caves; I had seen enough of those, but the view on the harbor of Mumbai was magnificent. That night, on the train to Ahmedabad, I noticed I started to get a fierce cough, and the fever once again came back in force. A bit worried about my health, I went to the hospital the next day. Diagnosis: a pretty heavy lung infection. The doctor prescribed me antibiotics and three days of bed rest - just when I was in Ahmedabad, that hot and crowded city where I was only passing through. Since I had no more fever after my visit to the hospital, I left Ahmedabad the next night taking the train to Udaipur. [by the way, as I'm writing this, I'm being bugged by a huge flying cockroach. Flying cockroaches? Evolution, you've gone too far!].

When I arrived in Udaipur, I realized I was pretty glad to be back in Rajasthan, that big and rugged state with colorful people I had visited a couple of times when I was in Delhi. Udaipur is supposed to be a fairy-tale city, with a beautiful palace on a lake. Unfortunately, because of poor monsoons, the lake is almost completely dried out. In fact, the locals had put a couple of hundreds of earthen water jugs there, begging the gods for some rain. Even without water, Udaipur was pretty charming, with people walking around calmly and children playing cricket in the dried-out lake. The next day I went to Ajmer. Once again, the bus drive was great, with the rough Rajasthani landscape populated by people gathered around water pumps, men carrying wood and women bearing several big water pots on their heads, as well as the usual cows, dogs and donkeys. I went to Ajmer mainly to visit nearby Pushkar, a Hindu pilgrimage town, where hundreds of temples are arranged around a lake.A lake that was, surprise surprise, dried out. This time, though, instead of children playing cricket, the lake was replaced by ugly concrete water tanks and bulldozers. I could see that Pushkar must be a really nice place when the water is there, and I enjoyed seeing the people performing their religious rituals (in the water tanks instead of in the lake), but I didn't stay long. I went back to Ajmer, and tired of sight-seeing, I went to a park. To my surprise, I found aesthetic marble pavilions at the side of a beautiful lake...with water! I got into a conversation with some Indian tourists, who were recognizably Sufi's (a type of Muslims). I remembered there was a famous Sufi temple in Ajmer, so a asked them to take me there. I found the same special atmosphere as in the Sufi temple in Delhi; this time without feeling too uncomfortable, thanks to the good company. (Strange coincidence: that same night, there was a big blast at an important Sufi temple in Pakistan)

And then I was on a night train to Delhi! My stay was bound to be different than before, because this time I was going to stay in the backpackers' area. Delhi was hot, rainy, muddy, and as congested as always, but after all these weeks of discovering new places and adjusting to new situations almost daily, it was kind of nice to go back to a vaguely familiar place. The first day was a typical Delhi-day: I had to important things on my to-do list, and I ended stressed out and angry because I managed to do only one. But at night I met up with some old friends, with whom I watched football (the World Cup was on) and went out, which made me forget the bad day. The next day I met my Indian friend Arnav. We went to Gurudwara Bangla Sahib, the Sikh temple I had somehow overlooked before - an excellent preparation for the Golden Temple I would see the next day.

Indeed, my next destination was Amritsar, home to Sikhism's holiest shrine. Sikhism, founded in the 15th century, began as a reaction against the caste system. Sikhs, who live mainly in North India, specifically in the state of Punjab, are very recognizable by some attributes, like their turband, beard and steel bangle. In their religion, there is a lot of emphasis on the equality of all beings. This is very much reflected in the atmosphere at the Golden Temple. Everybody is welcome, and can stay for free in one of the dormitories inside the complex. As is that wasn't enough, they provide free food for everyone. Eating at the Golden Temple is quite an experience. After getting a tin plate and cup, you stand in line before entering a gigantic dining hall. People sit on the floor in long rows, waiting for volunteers to provide them with food and water. After eating, your plate is washed by one of the dozens of volunteers; anyone can join the mass of people who do the dishes under loud clattering of the plates. The kitchen, serving up to 40,000 pilgrims a day, is equally impressive; the pots are taller than the cooks, who stir them with giant spoons. With all this, I haven't even talked about the shrine itself yet. The Golden Temple stands in the middle of a pond, which is surrounded by a walkway and galleries, all in marble. The atmosphere is pretty relaxed, with people walking around, prostrating themselves in front of the temple, or bathing in the holy pool. After crossing a small bridge, you queue up to get inside the shrine. That's when you notice that while the gold-plated upper part was drawing all your attention at first, the marble lower part is beautifully decorated with fine colored inlays, representing flowers and animals. While beautiful changing is resonating in the whole complex, you procede to the inside of the temple, the very heart of Sikhism. People are praying and bowing, the musicians are playing in the center, the atmosphere is amazing. The interior design is what I would usually call kitsch: golden decoration on a background of green, red and blue - but somehow, it works. You can get up to the roof, where you get a nice view of the people strolling on the walkway.
After my first visit inside the Golden temple, I went to Attari, 30km west of Amritsar, to watch the border closing ceremony at the only crossing between India and Pakistan. Stands are installed on either side of the border, where people from both countries ather every afternoon. An hour before the ceremony, while the Pakistani side is still empty, the Indian stands are filled with colorfully dressed people who start shouting slogans (helped by an animator), giving the whole thing a bit of a football match atmosphere.Yhen at some point women from the crowd are invited to carry an Indian flag, running to the border and back - young and old, slim and fat, and all that under a scorching sun. Then the same women start dancing together to some typical Indian music. In the meantime, people are appearing on the Pakistani side. The constrast between the soberly dressed, quiet Pakistani and the colorful, dancing, cheering Indians is big. While the two sides start shouting slogans at each other, the official part starts. The ceremony, where Indian and Pakistani soldiers walk up to each other and lower their flags before closing the gates, has often quite accurately been described as being similar to Monthy Python's "Ministry of Silly Walks" sketch.
That night, as I was strolling around the Golden Temple before going to sleep, I noticed that many people were sleeping right there, on the marble floor. I thought it would be a special experience to go to sleep and wake up in that holy place, between the pilgrims and the chanting, so I took the pillow out of my dormitory bed and lay down under the stars, right next to the pool. Marble doesn't make the most comfortable bed, and I got woken up, quite hard-handedly, twice - once because they were cleaning the floor, and the second time, around 4.30, because for some reason everybody had to wake up - but it was definitely worth it. The chanting goes on all night, and there are people paying a visit to the temple even in the earliest hours. After being woken up the second time, I walked around, watching the new day awakening, accompanied by morning prayers - and it's true what they say: the temple looks the most beautiful in the gentle light of the rising sun.

I would have stayed longer in Amritsar, if I had not come to know just the day before that the Dalai Lama was celebrating his 75th birthday in Dharamsala that same day. Dharamsala, location of His Holiness' residency as well as the Tibetan government in exile, happened to be my next destination. I couldn't believe my luck: I was going to see the Dalai Lama in person, on his own birthday party! Alas, since I lingered a bit too long in Amritsar that morning, and later my bus broke down (of course!), I missed the ceremony by just one hour. Dharamsala is a very nice place with stunning views and charming people - especially the Tibetans - but I stayed there for only one night. Apart from the fact that Dharamsala was very rainy, the main reason for my hurry was that there was one place left in India I didn't want to miss: Leh, in the state of Ladakh. Leh is situated high up in the mountains. One of the ways to get there is by taking a bus from another big tourist destination called Manali. The road from Manali to Leh includes some of the highest motorable passes in the worlds and offers magnificent views of the surrounding mountains and valleys. The Road is open about three months a year, in the summer, but I new that bad weather conditions could close it down any time. So going to Leh can be quite a waiting game, and the sooner I got to Manali, I thought, the sooner I could start waiting, the sooner I would get to Leh. I could always go back to Dharamsala afterward if I wanted. This idea changed slightly when the ten-hour bus drive between Dharamsala and Manali turned out to be a hell. The winding road and aggressive driver caused my stomach to protest; let's just say I was happy to have a window seat. When I got to Manali, I found out the Road was closed, heavy rainfall having caused a big landslide. The waiting game had begun...

Having a Ball in Bangalore and a Blast in Bombay

[I just spent about a month in the mountains, where the internet is slow and expensive... so I’m running behind a lot! Still, I want to try to tell everything as well as possible, so I hope you don't mind reading about what I was doing almost two months ago...indeed, this story starts around the 15th of July]

Enough time spent in the South. It was time to head back north! Back to Delhi, and then to the mountains. But there ware quite a few places I wanted to see in between.

The first stop was Bangalore, the "silicon city" of India (for older or Marsian readers: this means that Bangalore houses many IT companies. IT means Information Technology. Computers and all). After a night bus, where the guy behind me seemed to be running a call center for hearing-impaired, I arrived in Bangalore around the morning rush hour. I saw well-dressed men and women hurrying to work with their laptop bags, just like I had imagined it. Bangalore is a crowded city, a city of workaholics, a city of entrepreneurs; the city of the Indian dream. It's also renowned for its enjoyable climate; at an altitude of around 900m, the capital of Karnataka enjoys mild temperatures throughout the year.
I was going to stay with a colleague of my father's, but he wouldn't be in town until the evening, so I spent the first day exploring Bangalore on my own. In spite of the occasional rains, I liked what I saw. I went to the very nice Cubbon Park, where people were walking around, reading a newspaper, and, most pleasantly, amorous couples were enjoying their Saturday together – after spending weeks in conservative Tamil Nadu, seeing some love made me feel warm inside. I went walking around in the backpackers' area, but there weren't many tourists, probably because of the rain. I met one Dutch girl in a cyber cafe, who turned out to have pretty much the same traveling plans as I did - one of those pleasant India-coincidences.
Then it was time to meet my father's colleague. I knew virtually nothing about him, so I imagined I would have a pleasant but perhaps slightly boring time with a middle-aged man. It was a nice surprise when he turned out to be in his early thirties; I had a lot of fun with him and his friends. We stayed at his cousin's apartment, in what he claimed was "the most expensive apartment building in Bangalore": a fancy complex called the "Acropolis", in pseudo ancient Greek style with guards at the gates and a swimming pool in the center, and right next to one of the city's swanky shopping centers. We spent a typical Indian-big-city-Sunday-afternoon there: hanging around in the mall sipping coffee and going to watch a Bollywood movie. Although especially the former is not really my cup of tea, I must admit I was glad to be in a cosmopolitan (or globalized, if you will) environment - it felt like home. I was in a big, modern city. Ah, those cities. Pretentious, smelly prostitutes, that's what they really are - with the polluting traffic, and the noise, and the crowdedness, and the perfectly dressed people who walk around as if the equator runs through their backsides (I felt totally un-cool in my backpacker's clothing). But at the same time, you get the feeling that this is where it's all happening, this is where the world gets shaped; you hear talk about business everywhere, almost everybody speaks English, nobody even stares at foreigners...again, what a contrast with Tamil Nadu! Cities are horrible in many ways, and great in some, but that's where I realized I'm a city child, and I can't resist the energy and the vibe of a metropolis. We also went out to a club one night, but unfortunately, clubs have to close at as early as 11.30 pm. By the time we got there, at 10.30, people were already starting to leave. But altogether I had a great time in B'lore - it's always special to spend time with local people. After three entertaining days, I took the night train to my next destination: Hampi.

When you talk to fellow travelers, you get a lot of tips of where to go and what to see (which, by the way, is so much more valuable than any Trotter or Lonely Planet could ever be). Perhaps the destination that is mentioned the most in that type of conversations is Hampi. I didn't really know what to expect; I vaguely knew it was a hilly area, and there were some ancient temples, but that was about it. But the other travelers were right: Hampi was one of the absolute highlights of my trip so far. The surrounding nature is amazing. Huge boulders are scattered all over the place, as if giants had been carelessly playing with giant-sized pebbles. The brownish color matches perfectly with the greenery in between. In the valley, a river makes its way between the rocks, flanked by palm trees that add a tropical touch. The ruins of 15th century temples provide an ultimate touch of magic.
After one day on my own I was joined by the girl I had met in Bangalore, who is an architecture student, so great company to visit ancient temples. We rented bikes to go around the various complexes, which made a nice day trip. Because of the beginning monsoon, there were only few tourists, so that we could enjoy the picturesque town called Hampi in a more authentic way. It rained a couple of times a day, but it’s always cozy to share a shelter with other people, and it kept the temperature at an enjoyable level. Low season is great!
My favorite spot in Hampi is a small temple, perched on a hilltop above one of the biggest temple complexes. I woke op at an ungodly hour twice to see the sunrise there - breathtaking. As if all of this isn’t enough, there is also a waterfall not far from there, which has carved strange holes in the rocks. Add to that some people with whom you get along really well, a cheap guesthouse with a good atmosphere and a nice riverside restaurant, and you’re in paradise!

Hampi...

After 4 magical days in Hampi, it was time to move on again. Next big destination: Mombai! I mean, Bumbay! I mean… anyway, I did a couple of stops in between. I had booked a train to Mumbai from Goa. This former hippie paradise seems to have turned into a touristy hotspot a la Costa Brava in the last couple of years – not exactly what I was looking for, especially since everybody told me it was rainy and empty. So I would just go to Goa to see it briefly and take the train.
A few people had told me about Gokarna, a pilgrimage village at the coast of Karnataka, that appeared to be a more laid-back version of Goa. When I finally got there – an accident had caused the train to be canceled, forcing me to take three buses instead – I found a picturesque town, with far more bare-chested pilgrims in orange clothing than tourists, where cows were leaning against the houses to hide for the almost continuous rain. The beaches looked beautiful but were, of course, abandoned. I only spent one night in Gokarna, but I’m glad I saw it.
That’s more than can be said of Goa, where the room was overpriced and Indian mass tourism once again crossed my path. As I said, I had come to Goa mainly to take the train to Mumbai. The Konkan railway, along the southeast coast of India, is said to be one of the most beautiful journeys in the subcontinent. I had booked a day train, a twelve-hour journey on the 21st of June, the longest day of the year. And I was not disappointed. The track makes its way through the Konkan hills, going from valley, to tunnel, to valley. After every tunnel, a new valley reveals its secrets: farmers in the fluo green rice paddies, working the humid earth with their oxen-driven ploughs, against a background of green hills, frequently decorated with waterfalls.

And so I got to Mumbai, that crazy harbor city, with the magnificent Taj hotel and colonial buildings on the one hand, and the biggest slum in Asia on the other. I spent three pretty crazy days there. The first morning I met some British people, with whom I spent the day walking around in the city, and the night watching football, English style (my headache the next morning testifies of what I mean by that). We got picked up by a Bollywood scout, who asked us if we wanted to be in a commercial the next day. The goal in Mumbai is usually to be an extra in an actual movie, but a commercial sounded better than nothing. We would get INR 500 (EUR 8,5) and, more importantly, would be put on the guest list of a famous club – we had just been talking about how we wanted to go dancing the next day. I had been warned that being an extra was a bit boring, though a fun experience – and that’s exactly what it turned out to be. After a short night, a taxi dropped me and an English guy at a stadium somewhere in the north of Mumbai. When we arrived, the first thing they asked us was if we knew how to play cricket; luckily, the English guy did, and the fact that I barely knew the rules didn’t seem to matter. We were both to play Australian cricket players. He was a wicket keeper, and I a fielder. Apparently, an Australian wicket keeper is not supposed to have a beard. My colleague had one, so some serious shaving had to be done first. But not before some equally serious negotiations; my friend, in a brilliant moment of Indian style business flair, said he didn’t want his beard shaven, unless they would give him some financial compensation – which, they did. Instead of sending a barber, as we expected, they just gave him the cheapest type of razor, and needed more than half an hour to get him shaving foam to do the job. Another forty-five minutes later – my friend’s beard was tenacious, the razor blunt – we got our yellow Australian cricketer outfits. So far the funny and amusing part. It was an extremely rainy day, and since we had to shoot our scene on the cricket field, we needed to wait for a dry moment. Nine hours we spent waiting, in a cold, air-conditioned trailer. It wasn’t so bad at first; we chatted and joked with some crew members and fellow extras, and every once in a while we went to take a look at the set, where a crowd of a couple of hundred was made to cheer, clap and sing. But after a couple of hours, the fun was fading and we just wanted to get it over with. Luckily, when the moment finally came, however short, it was pretty rewarding. Although we were paid and treated like extras, we had a pretty big role, especially my friend, who had to catch a ball and throw it back. I was standing behind him – “just act like a fielder”, they told me, and although I had only a vague idea of what those fellows usually do, my standing around trying to look as if I knew what I was doing seemed to be satisfactory. Behind me, the crowd was still clapping and cheering, although I suspect it was not for my two-man team, nor for our world class acting performances. The commercial is supposed to air soon on the major Indian TV channels, but I haven’t seen it until now (roughly six weeks later). When we finally got back, well-deserved INR 500 (and a bit more for my freshly shaved business minded buddy) in our pockets, I felt a bit feverish. Not wanting to miss the party, the reward for a full day of waiting around, I had a powernap before following the others to the nightclub.

C'mon Australia!

After yet another extremely short night, I decided that it was time to leave. There was only one more thing I wanted to do in Mumbai: to visit the slums. Most people react skeptically to this, and so did I, at first; isn’t it a strange form of tourism? But someone convinced me, saying that, since 55% of Mumbai lives in slums, it’s just like visiting an important part of the city. What’s more, part of the money that you pay to the guide goes to a local NGO. It turned out to be quite different than I had imagined; if you think Slumdog-Millionaire-type misery, you’re mistaken (although a lots of scenes of the film were shot there). Contrary to other areas, the Dharavi slum, the biggest in Asia (almost 1 million inhabitants!), is an “official slum”. Indian government gave up the land and legalized it; people there pay rent and have water and electricity, and many houses are made of concrete. The name “slum” is almost a merely theoretical one; almost, because many people live in one room with their whole family, and there is one toilet per 1500 inhabitants. During 3 very rainy hours, we were guided through the slum. A big part is a business area. You can find tanners, smiths, potters, etc. It’s also a recycling paradise: plastic, tin cans, oil jars, everything is re-used or processed in new products. It’s big business; for instance, one of the tanners’ leather is exported to Italy, where it’s used in luxury products – the owner’s BMW is parked right around the corner. It’s one of those places where our cheap clothes and other products are made. The workers come from villages, where the wages are even lower than in the slum. They live above the workplace, and send money back to their families. They don’t have to work on Sundays, but a lot of them do. Of course, safety rules are virtually inexistent. Just something to think about when you buy cheap products back home… The residential area is quite different. Some people live in proper houses – that’s where it’s really hard to believe that you really are in a slum. People just live there because it’s situated pretty much in the center of the city, and the prices are lower than in regular areas. There are plenty of schools (both public and private), shops, and they even have their own bank. So Dharavi is really a sort of microcosm where thing’s aren’t as bad as one could imagine. In the last decade, the government has started a controversial “rehabilitation program”, where inhabitants of the slums are being relocated in apartment blocks. Not everybody is happy with that; it’s threatening the small businesses, and the people don’t want to pay property taxes.
At the end of the humid and tiring tour, my fever came back in force. Three days of walking around in the rain and little sleep seemed to be taking its toll. That same night I had to take a train to Aurangabad, my next destination. I was just at the start of a very intensive week, where I would from go from Mumbai towards Delhi, stopping only shortly in between and spending most nights in trains and buses; bad timing for illness…