Nestled among the majestic trans Himalayas lies the magical region of Ladakh. I hadn't even heard of it till about 3 years ago. Many Indians, I know for sure have still never heard of it. This land of high passes, I learned, is home to an ancient energy and civilization with known beginnings in the Neolithic times. A land preserved by virtue of its sheer inaccessibility.
Virtually cut off from the rest of the so called civilized world for most part of the year, it is one of the most pure environments one can ever find. I had no idea what this place would be like. I had only heard about and seen it in pictures from fellow travelers and the internet. It looked absolutely breathtaking in the pictures. So when I ended up in Manali, a month and a half into my journey to find a new way of life, I knew I had to find a way to see this place for myself. I was traveling with a group of 4 young German boys on their first visit to India, at the time. Our paths crossed somewhere on the journey in the awesome toy train, between Kalka and Simla. It all began with a cigarette. Actually with me asking for a lighter to light up. As always I began speaking with them and we all connected and decided to travel together. We hung out a Simla for a few days and then traveled to Manali and stayed there for a couple of days. The amazing company and the lighter load on my pocket was surely welcome. Just like me, the boys had only heard of Ladakh and were contemplating going there as well. The mystical land of Ladakh already had its grip on my wandering mind and I asked them to join me. Since they were on a tight budget too, I told them I would try my best to find the cheapest way to get us there. I was glad I wasn't alone and in any case in a country with the 2nd largest population in the world one never really is. A couple of days of visits to the bus stands, travel agents, internet cafes and meeting other travelers either going to or returning from Leh helped me finally chalk out our plan of action.
The cheapest possible way for us to get up to Ladakh was by road and of course by public transport. The 2 day road journey from Manali to Leh I had heard was one of the most demanding, yet fulfilling and rewarding in the world, from many a traveler. Having backpacked for a while then, the unspoken rules of nomadicity and wanderlust were indelibly etched in my mind. The very first rule being "Carry No Burden of Expectations". I had none what so ever as always, and I wasn't disappointed one bit. Even if I did have any expectations the journey would by far exceed them all. My mind couldn't even remotely have fathomed what I was about to witness and feel over the course on the next 2 days. Traveling by an old rickety local bus was just the beginning. Traveling on a road that in many places is just about as broad as the bus, maybe with a few inches to spare, across a variety of terrain and a drastic rise and fall in altitude, now that's a whole different ball game. (to be continued.........)
Monday, August 17, 2009
Where is the Pink????
BackPacker Journal entry 1/8/08 : Arrived in Jaipur today. "The Pink City" or so its called. I'm still trying to find the pink although I surely have found the city.And I used to think Bombay was dirty. As soon as I stepped out of the station and with precise timing and skill I was hounded by people who as usual think I'm a foreign tourist and wanted me to take a ride in their vehicles (also read) they think I'm a rich westerner and want to take me for a ride, if you get my drift. It is quite amusing to see how these people look at and talk to you in their best possible English when they think you're not Indian. Even more rib tickling is the priceless bewildered look on their faces when you talk to them in Hindi. Not to mention their obvious disappointment to now know that I didn't have as deep pockets as they originally believed. The lack of writing of any sort has screwed up my handwriting. Not that it was much better before.
I elected to walk despite eager, almost honest and " I like you so I wont cheat you" looks. A quick consult with the bible also commonly referred to as the Lonely Planet travel guide and I narrowed down my lodging options to a place called evergreen guesthouse. The name seemed nice enough and the book had a few good things to say about it. I began to ask for directions even though I had a map of the city in the guide for mainly two reasons 1) I suck at detailed maps just like most Indians, unless I really put my mind to it and whip out my compass which was at the time safely and "conveniently" stashed inside my backpack (my backpack is called Kahloucha Jr.) 2) Its always more fun asking for directions in our country the people of which usually don't have a clue, but will always gesture and say something/anything and get you lost. I say this from personal experience in asking for directions in a lot of places. In true to form Indian style I did get lost. As I began to ask for directions again I saw a fellow backpacker. A 29 year old guy from Manchester on a 3 week holiday. He had a guide book too and had narrowed down on another place to stay. The place was listed in my book but was a bit heavy on an Indian backpackers pocket. So we parted ways after walking together for a bit and exchanging pleasantries and indulging in some traveller chit chat. Later on while still looking for directions I sought help from an old hand rickshaw puller. His wrinkled face and slender but tough frame spelled struggle but honesty and poverty as well. He offered to take me to the guesthouse for a mere 10 rupees, which I thought was fair fare...... until I saw the scrony old man cycling me through completely pot hole infested and messed up streets and by lanes. He took me to the guesthouse as he had promised. On the way he had told me that the place would be a little expensive when I inquired about it. I told him that my book says its about 150-200 rupees a night. Looking at Jaipur I really didn't want to stay long just a day or two at most. I didn't find a cheap room at Evergreen (so much for guide books), and so asked the rickshaw puller to take me to any cheap guesthouse. He took me to a couple and everything in Jaipur just seemed expensive.
I elected to walk despite eager, almost honest and " I like you so I wont cheat you" looks. A quick consult with the bible also commonly referred to as the Lonely Planet travel guide and I narrowed down my lodging options to a place called evergreen guesthouse. The name seemed nice enough and the book had a few good things to say about it. I began to ask for directions even though I had a map of the city in the guide for mainly two reasons 1) I suck at detailed maps just like most Indians, unless I really put my mind to it and whip out my compass which was at the time safely and "conveniently" stashed inside my backpack (my backpack is called Kahloucha Jr.) 2) Its always more fun asking for directions in our country the people of which usually don't have a clue, but will always gesture and say something/anything and get you lost. I say this from personal experience in asking for directions in a lot of places. In true to form Indian style I did get lost. As I began to ask for directions again I saw a fellow backpacker. A 29 year old guy from Manchester on a 3 week holiday. He had a guide book too and had narrowed down on another place to stay. The place was listed in my book but was a bit heavy on an Indian backpackers pocket. So we parted ways after walking together for a bit and exchanging pleasantries and indulging in some traveller chit chat. Later on while still looking for directions I sought help from an old hand rickshaw puller. His wrinkled face and slender but tough frame spelled struggle but honesty and poverty as well. He offered to take me to the guesthouse for a mere 10 rupees, which I thought was fair fare...... until I saw the scrony old man cycling me through completely pot hole infested and messed up streets and by lanes. He took me to the guesthouse as he had promised. On the way he had told me that the place would be a little expensive when I inquired about it. I told him that my book says its about 150-200 rupees a night. Looking at Jaipur I really didn't want to stay long just a day or two at most. I didn't find a cheap room at Evergreen (so much for guide books), and so asked the rickshaw puller to take me to any cheap guesthouse. He took me to a couple and everything in Jaipur just seemed expensive.
NOMADIC INCLINATIONS
For so long have I dreamed life,
That my realities now seem unclear.
My life, my truths and my existence all seem so blurred.
I am not afraid any more, I have made my choice.
Soon I will walk the earth; soon I walk into the unknown and out of this urban wild.
I may one day be called a martyr or a legend,
Just another statistic or a man forgotten by time.
But I do this for myself, for the very thoughts that crowd my mind.
I do it for the words that have enriched me, the sights that have fulfilled my soul.
For the faces that have made me smile for the whole wide waiting world.
No boundaries or barriers, a world without strangers.
No fears, no inhibitions, just a man and the open road.
Just a man and new experiences.
Just a man and his nomadic inclinations.
- Nomadic Inclinations
That my realities now seem unclear.
My life, my truths and my existence all seem so blurred.
I am not afraid any more, I have made my choice.
Soon I will walk the earth; soon I walk into the unknown and out of this urban wild.
I may one day be called a martyr or a legend,
Just another statistic or a man forgotten by time.
But I do this for myself, for the very thoughts that crowd my mind.
I do it for the words that have enriched me, the sights that have fulfilled my soul.
For the faces that have made me smile for the whole wide waiting world.
No boundaries or barriers, a world without strangers.
No fears, no inhibitions, just a man and the open road.
Just a man and new experiences.
Just a man and his nomadic inclinations.
- Nomadic Inclinations
Hunter Gatherers
We were an organised lot, the bunch of us. We had the gatherers , the youngest kids who'd run to pick up all the fallen fruit, shot down by the throwers or hunters. I was one of the throwers, older, taller and athletic kids, proud of our skill and accuracy with throwing stones at the fruits that hung from the trees. We seldom missed. A good hit rate I remember was atleast 3 fruits for every 5 stones thrown. On good days and on bigger and more endowed trees each throw meant a fruit for sure. Then came the suppliers, usually girls incharge of maintaining the constant supply of stones each thrower needed. The system worked great. By the end of a good session among 5 gatherers, 4 Hunters and 3-4 suppliers we would have atleast 40 to 50 mangoes or a sack full of tamarind or cashews etc. all for the taking. All this in about 2 and a half to 3 hours. Not bad for a good days work.
But the best and the most loved aspect of the fruit gathering system was when 3 or 4 among us went home to their mom's kitchens and either asked for or sneaked away a couple of knives, salt, red chilli powder, pepper and sometimes plates for the ritual that was about to follow. The ritual of the feast.
Every kid would sit glued to their seats as the hunters cut open the fruit into pieces. A mixture of the salt, pepper and red chilli powder was prepared in a piece of paper. Each member of the team would receive a piece of fruit turn by turn, dip it in the spicy mixture and eat their hearts out.
By the end of it we'd all have eaten a fruit and half for sure. The left overs fruits if any, were thoroughly counted and distributed among the hunters for their labour. After all theirs was the hardest job. My share of mangoes, or tamarind was always welcomed by my mom an excellent cook and ex village girl herself. She would then efficiently pickle the fruit in the amazing Mangalorean style.
We never ran out of pickle those days......
- Nomadic Inclinations
But the best and the most loved aspect of the fruit gathering system was when 3 or 4 among us went home to their mom's kitchens and either asked for or sneaked away a couple of knives, salt, red chilli powder, pepper and sometimes plates for the ritual that was about to follow. The ritual of the feast.
Every kid would sit glued to their seats as the hunters cut open the fruit into pieces. A mixture of the salt, pepper and red chilli powder was prepared in a piece of paper. Each member of the team would receive a piece of fruit turn by turn, dip it in the spicy mixture and eat their hearts out.
By the end of it we'd all have eaten a fruit and half for sure. The left overs fruits if any, were thoroughly counted and distributed among the hunters for their labour. After all theirs was the hardest job. My share of mangoes, or tamarind was always welcomed by my mom an excellent cook and ex village girl herself. She would then efficiently pickle the fruit in the amazing Mangalorean style.
We never ran out of pickle those days......
- Nomadic Inclinations
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Growing Up....
A year had passed since I graduated and joined mainstream commercial civilization. I'm part of the working class now, I remember saying to myself listening to "Working Man" by the band Something Relevant. The thought of knowing that I had a job waiting for me even before my results were out, made me feel somewhat special, fortunate, a notch above most. Thank God for campus placements.
A career is everything, I was made to understand not just by my hardworking parents, but by the whole suburban middle class society I grew up in. Bombay (i refuse to call it Mumbai), Maximum City or so they say. Oh how I love her. The staggering pace, the people, the smells, those sardine can like trains, the night life, the friendships. But living in Borivli, an obscure, quaint stop on the northern flanks of Bombay isn't exactly all glitz, glamour, money, lights, billboards etc. So much so that most traditionalists and so called native MUMBAIKARS dont even consider it as part of the main city. If i had a rupee for every time i heard of Borivli being called a village, I'd be pretty well to do. But it all fell into place as I grew up and saw more of my city. Where else could one see sprawling trees of many a kind. From coconut, papaya, tamarind, drumsticks, jackfruit, mulberry, sitaphal, ramphal and of course to the quintessential mango. Where else could one claim to live in one of the city's cleanest environments, constantly being cleaned and replenished by the Lungs Of the City, Sanjay Gandhi National Park.
I remember a brilliant childhood with late mornings spent throwing stones at the fruit laden trees.The catch was priceless. Fresh ripe (pukka) and unripe (kuccha) mangoes of different varieties, sour tamarind and cashews galore. The rest of the time was spent on playing various games with the rest of the children hopscotch, chor-police, freeze and melt, lock and key, dodgeball. We also went hunting not in the literal sense but hunting for various types of wild life like snakes, birds, insects, just to catch a glimpse of them.We would climb trees almost everyday and play imaginary games like Tarzan Training Camp and GI Joe. I cant help but giggle as I write this. Genuine unadulterated happiness tucked away in out little secret space. I guess my love for free hand climbing began then. Climbing trees is an activity that I still indulge in and treasure to this very day. Just the feeling of being in those leafy bows makes all the effort worthwhile.
I also remember chasing rabbits in summer and hearing wolves howl in the dead of a full moon night when I was about 5 i guess. Something that remains indelibly etched in my mind even now that I'm 23 and writing this. But I have no pictures to prove the authenticity of my claims. Although my parents do justify and back this, I will never know if the rabbits and wolves were real or a manifestations of an imaginative 5 year old who still believes in fairies and trolls and ents even now that he is all grow up. Or is he?
A career is everything, I was made to understand not just by my hardworking parents, but by the whole suburban middle class society I grew up in. Bombay (i refuse to call it Mumbai), Maximum City or so they say. Oh how I love her. The staggering pace, the people, the smells, those sardine can like trains, the night life, the friendships. But living in Borivli, an obscure, quaint stop on the northern flanks of Bombay isn't exactly all glitz, glamour, money, lights, billboards etc. So much so that most traditionalists and so called native MUMBAIKARS dont even consider it as part of the main city. If i had a rupee for every time i heard of Borivli being called a village, I'd be pretty well to do. But it all fell into place as I grew up and saw more of my city. Where else could one see sprawling trees of many a kind. From coconut, papaya, tamarind, drumsticks, jackfruit, mulberry, sitaphal, ramphal and of course to the quintessential mango. Where else could one claim to live in one of the city's cleanest environments, constantly being cleaned and replenished by the Lungs Of the City, Sanjay Gandhi National Park.
I remember a brilliant childhood with late mornings spent throwing stones at the fruit laden trees.The catch was priceless. Fresh ripe (pukka) and unripe (kuccha) mangoes of different varieties, sour tamarind and cashews galore. The rest of the time was spent on playing various games with the rest of the children hopscotch, chor-police, freeze and melt, lock and key, dodgeball. We also went hunting not in the literal sense but hunting for various types of wild life like snakes, birds, insects, just to catch a glimpse of them.We would climb trees almost everyday and play imaginary games like Tarzan Training Camp and GI Joe. I cant help but giggle as I write this. Genuine unadulterated happiness tucked away in out little secret space. I guess my love for free hand climbing began then. Climbing trees is an activity that I still indulge in and treasure to this very day. Just the feeling of being in those leafy bows makes all the effort worthwhile.
I also remember chasing rabbits in summer and hearing wolves howl in the dead of a full moon night when I was about 5 i guess. Something that remains indelibly etched in my mind even now that I'm 23 and writing this. But I have no pictures to prove the authenticity of my claims. Although my parents do justify and back this, I will never know if the rabbits and wolves were real or a manifestations of an imaginative 5 year old who still believes in fairies and trolls and ents even now that he is all grow up. Or is he?
WHY????........
As I left the comfort of a loving home and parents, the happiness that came from my friendships, the security of a well paying job, the joys of living in a city; I couldn't help but wonder what the future had in store for me. Why was I different? Why did I want to be so? Questions of all sorts crowded my mind. It was and always will be one of my life's defining moments, the walk from home to Borivli railway station. I got into the train at Bombay Central station to leave for Jaipur, Rajasthan. It was to be the first leg of my trip. I had decided then that I wouldn’t ever reserve a ticket for myself as long as I could. I had made up my mind to travel as and when I felt like it. No itineraries and No reservations. And like the majority of Indians do, in the general compartment of trains. It was quite a struggle to get into the compartment, but I made it. I had been travelling by trains for as long as I can remember. From family functions, weddings, visits to dad’s office, family outings and later by myself to college, to the movies, for drinks, for parties, to clubs etc. etc., trains weren’t new to me. I was prepared for the worst. Even sleeping on the floor of the train like I did on the way to Kerala, on my first solo backpacking trip would be just fine.
My parents to this day still ask me when I’ll be back. I told them I’d be travelling for a year to find a new way of life and if I did manage to find something in that year I’d go for it. They only chose to hear the first part. I feel sorry for them sometimes. It must be strange answering questions about your son who isn’t working or starting a business or even studying. Suburban middle class life doesn’t leave many options for finding yourself.
By Nomadic Inclinations
My parents to this day still ask me when I’ll be back. I told them I’d be travelling for a year to find a new way of life and if I did manage to find something in that year I’d go for it. They only chose to hear the first part. I feel sorry for them sometimes. It must be strange answering questions about your son who isn’t working or starting a business or even studying. Suburban middle class life doesn’t leave many options for finding yourself.
By Nomadic Inclinations
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