Remembrance of Things Past

I'm gonna try to make some sense out of the past month and a half, let's see how it goes.

Lost Horizon

Like an alcoholic waking up from a bender, I've found myself out of Ladakh with quite a hole in my calendar. After swinging around Northern India for more than a month I've reached the Himalaya regions and fell in love. Just shy of six weeks, nearly half the time I've spent in this country.

What is it all about? At first I thought it was the temperature. India is humid. Especially the more southern, flat areas, but the north is not far behind. Ladakh, however, is 3.5Km high, and the mountain air may be arid, but the result, armpit-wise, is blissful. But that can't be the whole deal. Although I try to refrain from generalities, especially when they are nation-related, I couldn't help but feel a deep resentment towards one specific aspect of the Indian people. Whether in Kashmir, Himachal Pradesh or in any big city, the people I've met had the tendency of being as selfish as I've seen in my life. When dealing with people working in the tourist industry one might expect that, but meeting solely people of that form for more than a month can be tiring. Apart from social interactions, this trait is evident in the Indian view of nature as well. I guess blaming Ravi-six-pack for pollution isn't logical, since waste management is of course an issue that lies under the responsibility of the government, but the simple fact that all the people I've met here viewed a simple garbage can as a superfluous object is saddening.
In one of his books Bill Bryson mentions the rising international strain on India and China to reduce pollution and upgrade their waste management techniques (I can't say for China, but in India's case "creating" would be a better term than "upgrading"). To date, these attempts have been futile. The two most crowded nations on earth, comprising together nearly half the globe's population demand the opportunity to develop and benefit from the industrial revolution that had allowed Europe and North America to reach their current economical and technological status. And so, India is rushing head on into full blown mass production, with no regards to the near or far future.
Ladakh, however, is different. It's not that there's no mess, this is still India. But everything here is so small. Leh - the biggest city and regional capital (Ladakh is still a region in the state of Kashmir, though lately had been applying for an independent status like that of Delhi, Mumbai and Pundicherry) has a population of merely 25,000. And when you leave Leh you really reach the great unknown. Sparse villages of few houses (one village on the Markah Valley boasts being the smallest village on earth, comprising of a single house), no electricity, or solar-powered batteries at the most, and mostly lots of Yaks.

A peaceful Ladakhi garden

Leh operates as a central tourist hub, like Manali, Daramsalla and Rishikesh, but the crowd that it attracts is somewhat different. Although the popularity of the region had been rising exponentially the past few years, it still mostly attracts the trekkers, which - again, in general - are nicer people than many of the tourists I've met in other places.

I haven't trekked at all, and have actually spent a staggering amount of time in a vicious triangle comprising my guest house, a favorite restaurant and a bookshop. The decision came as a natural result of my physical condition, and although it had been extremely frustrating at first, I eventually came to terms with myself. I don't think I would not have been able to trek, but I don't believe I would have enjoyed it in my state. Plans of trekking in Nepal have been scratched off, but more on that later.

Another major change that definitely had its part in my infatuation with Ladakh is the fact that I haven't been there by myself. Traveling solo is an amazing experience, and I wouldn't trade it for the world. But it's also extremely hard, and not for the reasons I feared when I left home. Friends and family that have talked to me in my first weeks here have heard and seen the troubles I had. Days spent barely exchanging words with others, sometimes nothing more than orders in restaurants were challenging. I've learnt that I'm sentimental, and can actually get homesick. I've also come to further my belief in the fact that sometimes talking about something will NOT actually make it better. But only thinking about it by yourself is sure to make it worse. So what is there to do? Sometimes, I think, you just need to get off your ass and start doing. And sometimes you just need to find the right person. And I've met her. Bliss.

In one of my final days in town we (me and my companion) were blessed with another occurrence. I had a slow morning, and was just about to leave the guest house towards town around noon when my friend ran into the room and dragged me outside to the roof.
"It's gone", she said, and I figured that was it, and "it" really is "gone" (whatever "it" is, and wherever it had "gone" to).
Luckily, it came back 5 minutes later. A perfect circular rainbow ring surrounding the sun. Walking into town, both locals and tourists were barely looking where they were going, since everyone was craning their necks upwards.
Our restaurant owner - a somewhat coquettish Nepali referring to himself as Mr. Love, working 15 hours a day, 7 days a week, and operating two more restaurants, in Kathmandu and Hampi in the appropriate seasons - admitted to having seen this phenomena only twice before in his life. According to him, this was a sign of a meeting of gods in the sky. Why not, actually?

This is not a lens flare

Up until this point in my (very short) travels, I have always rushed to the next spot, have always felt that I need to move on, not so much to cover ground, but simply because I have had enough of each spot, but leaving Leh was heartbreaking. But my traveling companion's Visa had expired, and Chen (a friend from the service) was waiting in Manali, and I sadly booked my ride to Manali for the night of August 12th.

Big mistake.

Cape Feare

Lonely Planet describes the Leh-Manali ride as "coccyx crunching". Now I'm no doctor, but I'm pretty sure that a coccyx - whatever that may be - is a part of your body that you don't want crunching.

On my last night – the minibus was leaving at midnight – I was sitting with two tourists in a restaurant discussing rides in India. Upon hearing that I'm about to embark on this specific journey, one of them merely said "good luck". Rex, as has name turned to be, is a South African born computer engineer. He has been traveling for the past twenty years between India and South Africa, living off royalties from this computer programming books, and has even lived in India for about a decade. Apparently, this is only the second most terrifying ride in India (the first being somewhere in Spiti Valley), Hurray!

Now I have to admit that this is also somewhat my fault. I was supposed to leave Leh two days earlier, and reach Manali around the same time Chen did, but I kept putting it off because the thought of leaving was simply devastating. When I finally left, I have chosen to do so on the night of the biggest blizzard to hit Ladakh since 1959.

At first it seemed OK. I have been riding around Ladakh, and so wasn't surprised to see fresh snow falling on our car, a mere two hours after leaving Leh. We have reached our first mountain pass (one out of four passes over 4,900m high along the way). I was also delighted to learn that I have the front seat, right next to driver, since this is the only car in the bus with decent legroom and no passengers sitting next to me.

It is kind of impressive. I mean, it's August, but there's snow everywhere. It seems like it hadn't snowed for a while, since there are only fresh white patches on the side of the road, but mostly you can still see the road and the scene around. But as the ride went on, it was getting more and more difficult to figure out where exactly we are, or where we're going. By noon we were into the second pass, and you could no longer see anything but two mud tracks blazed by the car in front of you.

At a specifically terrifying point we were stuck behind a line of cars because a boulder dislodged by the landslides blocked the road ahead. Since this was a serious boulder (about the size of a private car) and there were no heavy tools around, the drivers had to find a creative way to go around it. When crossing mountain passes, usually there's a cliff on one side of the car, and an upwards slope on the other. In this case we were driving on the cliff side, and the boulder naturally blocked the slope side. After realizing that even an Indian driver couldn't cross the block on such a narrow stretch, a group of drivers simply decided to build n extension of the road on the cliff side, basically in mid-air. Thankfully, we all debarked from the car and walked that stretch leaving the driver to risk his life like I've never seen anyone risk anything before. Drivers here are always relaxed – maybe I think so because I'm always stressed out – but you could vividly see the beads of sweat on ours as he was driving on air.

After crossing this lovely obstacle a new problem arose. It appeared that the driver directly in front of us was not as good a driver as the rest of the convoy, and while driving in the snow he constantly got his car stuck. Whenever this happened we had to get out of the car and help push the car back on the road, since people were doing the same for us when we got stuck. I never felt a need to have Israelis with me during rides, but I was grateful for Karni and Amit. After trekking for a year in Central and South America, they have decided to take two relaxing months in India before starting school. Amit was actually so hell bent on relaxation he didn't even bring shoes. Or sandals. So while it was snowing like mad, with a temperature well below zero and puddles of muddy water all around us, Amit was pushing a bus in flip-flops.

Nope, not Alaska in January, this is India in August

Somewhere around 9pm we reached Keylong. When visitors come from Manali to Leh, they are urged to spend the night in Keylong to acclimatize themselves to the height, in order to avoid AMS. Keylong is only 120km from Manali, and approximately 350km from Leh. The ride, which was supposed to last 17 hours had lasted 21 so far, and we were still fairly far from our destination. And yet, none of us (including the locals) complained when the driver pulled into a guest house and informed us that we will be meeting at this spot at 9am, where we'll see if the final pass is open to traffic or not.

At half past eight in the morning one of our French passengers knocks on our door and informs us (Karni, Amit and myself) that we have 10 minutes to get dressed and ready, as everyone is already packed and have even loaded their luggage on the roof, and simply forgot to tell us to wake up.

Apparently the pass is open, what joy! And it's not even snowing anymore – double joy!

A short ride gets us right till the entrance to Rohtang La (La means pass, remember?). It seems like we'll have to stop for a few minutes, a routine passport check, the final one before leaving Kashmir and getting back into Himachal Pradesh. After 30 minutes of waiting we start wondering what's up. It seems like every minute another car stops at the checkpoint but none of them go across it. Finally one of the local passengers informs us that the police informed him that the pass is closed right now, and there is no telling when it will be open, since it was closed for the past three days.

After five hours of waiting inside the car, finishing my book and reading half of Amit's, eating in several of the Dahbas around, an Israeli from another car tells me that he's looking for people to share a ride back to Keylong for another night, in order to avoid spending a night here in the car, as we know people have done in the week before. Several minutes after I ask him to let me know if he has a spot open for me as well, my driver informs me that going back to Keylong is out of the question since a part of the road actually fell into the river because of landslides. People around me are starting to stock up on blankets and shawls. Amit is still in his flip-flops. The driver is still chewing Tobacco at a rate I've never seen in my life.

And then, at around 6pm, after almost 10 hours of waiting, we see that something is happening. The drivers are running around, the locals are talking excitedly. Apparently the police caved in and allowed us to pass. No one waits for a second invitation. We pile into the car and head on.

Rohtang is by far the worst of the four passes. The northern part is just as snowy and blind as the first three, and the southern part is practically made of mud. Only in Manali did I learn that the pass is closed one day a week for reconstruction, but it'll take several years to construct something worthy of the title "road" over there. Since the pass was closed for three days a staggering pileup of cars, mostly trucks, is waiting on the other side. Truck drivers are notorious here, and beside their impatience and erratic movement many have simply left their car in the middle of the road and climbed down the pass. We are – naturally – still driving on the side of the road closer to the cliff, and our driver has to make sure he doesn't get stuck in the mud, doesn't graze the trucks that are mere microns away from us and oh, doesn't tip over the edge.

When we finally get to Manali it's been 45 hours since leaving Leh, around 32 of which were spent inside the car. As a result of sitting up front I had a front row view of the whole bone shaking experience, probably losing at least ten years of my life. The bond we feel among the passengers and with our driver is that of a group of soldiers that were sent on a suicide mission, but somehow miraculously survived it. Only a day later do I learn that a local bus that was on the same run with us, and that we've seen many times during those two days fell over the edge, killing 15 local folk dancers on their way to a festival in Keylong. May they rest in peace.

An important note in case you happen to be one of my parents – the above anecdote is complete fiction. All my rides so far were on flat 3 lane highways, and all the drivers were non-drinking, responsible adults. In fact, I think they were all Mormons.

The Lost Week(end)

Chen was in Manali for about three days when I finally reached safety. She spent approximately 2.87 of them in her room, since monsoons have decided to hit town. She is anxious to move on, and after two or three more days in town we leave towards Parvati Valley.

Kasol, the central village in Parvati, is described in Lonely Planet as a "Hippie/Israeli hangout", and even Wikipedia mentions the various Hebrew signs across the village, but nothing prepared us for the shock we were about to receive. I wasn't even off the bus before I got extremely impatient and irritated with the place. The locals speak Hebrew, some of them fluently, some of them are even wearing Source Sandals. More signs are in Hebrew than in English and even Hindi. There are tons of tourists all around but they are all Israelis, without exception. And there is absolutely nothing to do there. Unlike the charm and unique location of other tourist hubs, Kasol looks like a regular Hindi village, with scattered shops and houses along a main road, that had simply been invaded and occupied by the IDF.

So why are there so many Israelis here?

Charas.

Charas is a drug made from the resin of Cannabis. It is somewhat similar to Hashish, although it's feel and effects are slightly different. The Charas from Parvati, along with that of Afghanistan, is considered the best in the world. Because of this, thousands of Israelis make a pilgrimage to Kasol each year, some of them staying in the area for months, doing a whole lot of nothing.

When I ask a neighbor in my guest house if he would like to join me for a joint he informs me that he will take a puff, although usually he doesn't go for that. "Then what are you doing here in Kasol?" I ask him, and he informs me that mostly Chillums and Bhangs. Lovely.

Since we arrived on Friday we decided to go to dinner at the Chabad house. After an evening of heavy drinking, and a whole day during which I apparently didn't drink enough water, we wound up in one of the Israeli restaurants (it's called "Sami Burekas", seriously). After smoking too much I decided to head down to the bathroom which were on the ground floor (we were up on the terrace). When I started climbing down the stairs I was feeling heavy, but decided to grab the railing and finish the flight. And I did. I guess it was ten seconds later when I woke up and found myself lying on the floor with five guys crowded around me. It seems that I have momentarily fainted, at a very unsuitable location. The end result was much better than anyone could have hoped, though. Only grazing along my hand, a cut on the nose, and apparently a broken piece of cartilage in my nose, since it now clearly leans a little to the right. I can only hope a scar remains on my nose to make sure I remember not to act like such an idiot again.

After this lovely incident I was more than anxious to leave, and after a day resting (and making sure I don't have any brain damageamageamage) we left Kasol towards Tosh, a small village not far, accompanied by Chen's cousin, Ben. One of the attractions of Parvati for the tourist crowd is the big amount of small villages around Kasol that have pleasant views and accommodation (this attraction is of course second to the Charas in most cases).

Tosh is nice, and after choosing a cozy looking guesthouse we go down to the village to have dinner. When we come back several hours later we see a crowd of about 15 people, all of them Israelis of course – gathered in an opening by our guesthouse. It doesn't take long before someone puts on Psychedelic Trance and people start chugging MDMA laced water. The music lasts till five in the morning, and the tired looking Nepali owner goes around the tables offering "Bhang cleaning service".

Tosh (also, Ben and Chen)

Since I've meddled (unsuccessfully) a bit in pro-Israeli PR, I know in what a shoddy state we stand. I know how hard it is to make people listen. I know how important it is to market ourselves as we truly are to the world, and not as the foreign media portrays us. But it is much easier to destroy than to build. I have never once denied being Israeli, neither for shame nor for security reasons, but I have never been more ashamed to admit to being Israeli as I was during these days. A physical feeling of ill attacked me when I met some of the people that have created the Parvati ex-pat community that is sickeningly flourishing.

When we leave Tosh we had back to Kasol for another night, and a day in Kullu (the district town, with a grubby, dime-a-dozen market) after which we had back into the mountains towards Khiriganga. Khiriganga isn't even a village. Located at the height of 3Km – reached after a tiring 3 hour climb from the final point in the road, 2Km high – it is a hot spring with three restaurants that also serve as guesthouses. This is a sacred spot for Hindus, because of I-have-absolutely-no-idea-but-it-has-to-do-with-Parvati. Parvati is the supreme goddess, and wife of Shiva (thank god for Wikipedia). The hot springs are divided in the middle, with one half for men and the other for women. The men have an open bath, with incredible views of the valley and mountains around, and the women are blocked behind three walls made of wood. The only positive result being that they can go in naked, whereas men are asked to wear bathing suits.

Khiriganga is heaven. We've spent four days at the springs (by this point Ben had left and we were again traveling just the two of us), sleeping at night in the restaurant on mattresses by Tandoori ovens – since rooms cost 100Rs. each and don't really have anything to offer and it turned out that sleeping at the restaurant is free of charge as long as you eat there during the day. At a certain point I was deliberating staying in Khiriganga, missing my flight, and basically becoming a local, but at the end logic (damn him!) prevailed, and we came down the mountain and back to Kasol. A French girl in another restaurant – thankfully this place is known to a small group of non-Israelis so we had some continentality – has been in Khiriganga for the last ten months, and is apparently not going anywhere. Usually meeting these people I have always looked at them as if something was off, but here I could totally relate. It is heaven.

The gospel according to Noam

Since we were sick of Kasol, and since my time was running short, we decided to move on the next day to Rishikesh, and instead of taking a tourist bus directly, do the ride by local busses. Driving local is always an experience, but I think it's a much more pleasant one when you're not alone. It took us 19 hours, 4 busses and a cab to get to Rishikesh. Happily, one of the four busses was a state of the art, air conditioned, spacey one. This is, of course, the one we took for 12 minutes. The rest of them were 3-9 hours long. But we did finally get to Rishikesh at 1am, and realized that the city has a staggering amount of people sleeping on the street, even in Indian standards.

Fahrenheit 451

When I talk to a friend on the phone he asks how's Rishikesh. It's so hot here. He laughs and says I'm the only person in the world that answers a question about a new place only with a weather report. But it is. It's so hot. Actually it isn't. It's only about 32 Celsius, which isn't even bad in Israel standards. But it's so humid. I take three showers a day, and I still can't take the grime off. Clothes that are washed and hang to dry take ages, because the air is simply soaking. Thank god for the Ganges. This is the same body-burning-Ganges we've all seen in pictures, and it's big and brown (kind of like me, actually), but we're way upstream from where the body burning actually takes place. In fact, this is what makes the area so sacred. Rishikesh itself is famous mostly because this is where The Beatles stayed for two months in 1968, but nearby Haridwar is the most sacred city in the state of Uttarakhand because it is relatively close to where the Gangotri glacier melts and forms the river. Why is all this important? Because we bathe there. I did shut my eyes tight, pursed my lips and held my nose while praying for no body parts to float on by, but I bathed. And it's freezing.

SOP picture from the Ganges

At dusk we head on to the big temple right by the river for the daily Puja – the Hindu ceremony performed twice daily, which is one of the famous marks of Rishikseh. It's boring. Really. Several hundred Indians flock by the river, lifting candles and waiting idly while tourists gawk at them. Apparently at some point offerings of flowers to the river are supposed to be made, but we didn't stick around for that – we left after what felt like six days. Apart from the Pujas, Rishikesh is also jam-packed with Ashrams, some offering deluxe standards for picky European chicks on a soul-searching journey, and some offering ascetic conditions suitable only for the hardcore local Sadhus (Hindus on a spiritual quest). There are also dozens of Sadhus along the road and up the river bank, offering the tourists to join them for Chai, and in some cases a Chillum puff as well. We had the Chai, thank you.

Friendly Sadhus with a local Indian girl

After three days in the grubbier side of the river we move up to what is known as the Swiss Cottage area. The "area" is basically a bunch of run-of-the-mill tourist guesthouses, neatly located on a hilltop overlooking the river and town, and offering a bit more air and wind then the places downtown. Since it's a tiring sweaty 20 minutes walk to town many tourists stick around the guesthouses enclave all day long, but I'm proud to say that we manage a different tour each day. Sweating like hogs. Dirty, dirty hogs.

Stuck Inside of Delhi With The Oslo Blues Again

I wasn't looking forward to coming back to Delhi. I wanted to come here straight for my flight. But it seemed risky, especially considering the very relaxed Indian concept of timetables. I gave myself two days of leeway, getting here on Monday morning when my flight leaves at Tuesday night.

By an incredible stroke of luck, a friend who is working in Delhi was delayed because of his project, and I was able to smuggle myself for two days into his deluxe 7-stars hotel in town. The area I'm staying in houses most of the embassies, and is therefore much more upscale. The hotel itself is spectacular, and I have spent my first hour in the room simply admiring the various facilities – a toilet you can actually sit on and read a book, carpeting that doesn't support mold, a TV that was made after the Russia-Japan war and various others – and realizing that for one day I'll be the single most privileged backpacker in India.

I had two days to unwind, set myself for different standards and get ready for the next leg in my trip. In 8 hours I'll be flying to Copenhagen, where I'll stay for three days and leave on board a cruise ship towards the US, stopping over in Norway, Scotland, Ireland, Northern Ireland, Iceland, Greenland, Canada and ten days around the Caribbean Islands, finally landing in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida.

My ridiculously awesome cruise plan

When I left home I only took the name of a guesthouse to Delhi for the first night, and decided to wing the rest of it. I did have a general plan that consisted of Nepal and China as well as India, and now it's gone. In a day I'll be joining my friend from Leh, and together we'll go as far away from The East as possible (because what's less east than west?). It's spontaneous, it's weird, mostly exciting, decadent (hell yeah!) and I hope that allot more.

I still need to find a way and sum up my time here. I've been writing for too long now. It's been hard, it's been easy, it's been fun, it's been annoying, it's been hot, it's been cold (but mostly hot). It's been allot more, but I can't really say right now. Come back? Maybe, one day. There's allot more world to see right now.

Adios!

Six Degrees of Inner Turbulence

I can feel it, it won't be long.
There's a lot to write about.
Things are happening, things are changing.
Plans are evolving, ties are forming but also tearing.
It feels like the past month had lasted years, but it also feels like it's just been June yesterday.
Bear with me, I have things to say.
But not now.

Till The End of The Land

So I'm in the back of the truck, and the girl next to me just finished throwing up, but that doesn't stop the youth guide from keeping on chanting the local songs with the kids.
Wait, let me backtrack for a minute so this doesn't sound like a scene from a Kusturica movie.

It all started because of Adam. I haven't seen Adam since my pre-army volunteer year, when we were both working for the SPNI. And now, naturally, he's here - in Ladakh. The jagged mountains and inviting natives attract a big crowd of trekkers, and ex-SPNI members are a major target group for that kinda thing. We first meet in The Jewish House, a Chabad-esque organization that operates tourist houses across the globe, though unlike the Chabad House phenomena, the organization isn't affiliated with a specific branch of Judaism, and so the tone is set in each house according to the family operating the place. In Leh's case, we are talking about a bizzaro Kabbalah oriented family on a four month mission from Tzfat. The house provides workshops during weekdays about various religious and spiritual subjects, but I guess the main attraction is Friday night dinner, when a Kiddush is held, and pretty much all of the Israeli crowd in town (which is a hell of allot) comes over to pray, say "Shabbat Shalom" and enjoy a free hot meal along with some light missionary work on the hosting family's part. Adam's been in India for several months now, and was in Nepal before that, and this is his last week here. Although I'm thrilled to see him again, I soon get the same feeling of meeting a work friend, or simply an acquaintance from a very certain point in your life - once you get past the formalities and the joy of reunion, you find you don't really have that much to talk about. But it's still fun to hear about the guys from Adam's group, and where they are today (including the one that found religion, got married and moved to Tzfat meanwhile), and filling him up about what my guys are up to these days.
The next time I see Adam is three days later, just before his departure south towards Delhi, and I can see that his time was well spent, by his burnt skin, stubble and horrible stench. And that's how I hear about Pangong Tso. Although the name sounds familiar from my Lonely Planet guide, you have to be careful about what you pick from that book, since allot of times major disappointments would be highlighted whereas hidden gems would be completely absent from mention. In this case, however it seems that both guide and traveler are in agreement.

Since the lake (Tso means lake here, by the way) is located on the Chinese border - part of it actually lying in China - a special permit is needed in order to allow access to the region. Also, not wanting to hire a private Jeep to get there (for frugal and sentimental reasons both) I decided to look into the local bus scene. Leh being a major hub for tourists and trekkers, virtually every second shop in town is a travel agency, but you still need to choose carefully. The first places I try inform me that: A. There are no local buses going to Pangong, and B. Permits are only issued for groups of two people and more. These two facts naturally lead to the agencies trying to coax me into joining an organized trip that does Pangong and back in one day (which doesn't allow much, since the drive is about seven hours in each direction). It only takes a couple of hours to find the shady agency where the owner promises me he can arrange a permit for individuals, and another stroll down to the bus station to realize that there are indeed local buses going to Pangong.

Saturday morning. 5am. Still dark. I get up and start making my way towards the bus station which is on the other side of town. On the way down I stop and pick up some local bread fresh from the oven, sold at the Muslim side of town from day break. The bread is wrapped in year old newspaper pages, and costs 3Rs. per "pita" (roughly 7 cents). Thank god I checked the schedule in advance and bought a ticket at the same time, since the bus is already full by the time we leave Leh, and in the first half hour of the ride at least twenty more people join us. Although the bus is a local bus, which means that it is the most dilapidated and messy as you can find, the seats are more comfortable than those on the "deulxe tourist buses" I rode before. That doesn't mean, however, that there's too much room for standing, and so, some of the unlucky tourists who joined the ride late choose to climb up on the roof and enjoy the ride from up there (never mind the rain, occasional snow and terrain we face ahead). After the depressing first half hour, where we stop at practically any house on the road to pick up more passengers/luggage, we finally get going and the ride seems to go fairly smooth. Even climbing Chang La, the third highest motorable pass in the world (at 5,289m), only causes the bus to stop twice, during which the errand buy attached shoves melting snow from the roadside down the radiator to try and cool it.

Fixing the radiator at 5,300m

It's only in Tingtse that things got messy. TingtseChuchul (relatively nearby, 80km). After a quick stop for lunch we start moving again, but as soon as we are out of the village the bus stops once more at the side of the road. Since this is not the first (or tenth) time we had to stop during the ride - to let people up, down, to cool the radiator, to haphazardly tie some more gas tanks to the roof - no one seems excited at first, but as time goes on we realize this is not one of these stops. When one of the passangers eventually moves up front and asks about the nature of the delay, the driver explains in broken English that the bus died. It seems like this time no amount of waiting, water, snow or anything else will bring the thing back to life. While some of the passengers decide to head back to Tingtse and take the next bus that comes by tomorrow to the lake, a small group of tourists stays on the road, and I am among them. Our first vehicle of salvation comes in the form of an army truck rolling from the nearby camp towards the lake. Only after we jump on the back cabin does an MP come and inform us that under regulations the truck can't carry us and we all need to depart. Strangely enough, this wasn't his way of asking us for cab fare, since no amount of arguing and haggling helps us stick to the car. A few minutes later, another truck rolls by, this time civilian. By the looks of it, it seems likely that the truck is used daily as a garbage truck, but right now the back cabin is empty. After we all climb on top once more, the driver asks for an outrageous amount of money (though too embarrassing to mention here), and we all get out of yet another transfer option.

But third time's the charm. Another garbage truck-cum-bus comes along, but this time, there are already passengers in the back. Since by this point there were only six of us who were brave (or desperate) enough to wait for so long, we can all fit in the back, but barely, since there are about 30 more kids sharing the ride with us. Summer vacation having started, all the kids are on their way summer camp somewhere on the lake, and we get to enjoy the camp songs that they seem to know by heart, and we get to experience first hand the fact that many kids suffer from car sickness. It takes about another hour to reach the lake, while the trucks whooshes along at a breakneck speed of 30km/h (and I'm not kidding, that does feel fast by now).

Our cosy ride

When we finally get to Pangong, we are dropped at Spangmik, a "village" consisting of about five houses, all of which double as homestays for tourists in season. During winter (September-May) no one stays in the lake, and the families move to Leh or other, warmer places in the south. We decide to stay at the Parachute Cafe closest to the lake. These cafes are basically tented restaurants, serving a basic meal of rice, Dal (lentil soup) and Sabzi (cooked vegetables), offering a nearby second tent with mattresses and blankets. Ours also serves omlette and Chapati for breakfast - Joy!. Since the seven hour ride eventually took us nearly thirteen, we don't mess around and go to sleep pretty soon after dinner. It's only when I wake up the next day that I can really appreciate where it is that I am. Pangong Tso, spreading some I-don't-know-how-many miles (but allot), is eerily quiet, with clear blue water, surrounded by a desert scenery encircled by snowy peaks that remain snowed all across summer. The road next to the lake is only visited by a solitary Jeep every couple of hours, and apart from that there are absolutely no noises around. There is no source of electricity (not even an unstable one like in Leh) and so most families either make go with no power at all, or keep a tiny solar panel attached to a car battery outside their huts.  Except a "hotel" offering concrete rooms, the houses are built using adobe bricks held together with mud, and the fences dividing each family's tiny wheat field are simply made out of stacked stones. The weather changes from chilly during most of the day, because of the clouds and the wind, to brief periods of intense heat when the sun is out. Since we are at around 4,500m, the water remains cold all year long (and freezes over during winter), and I can only force myself into a 5 seconds dunk in the icy water before running out. And that's it. There is nothing else to do in the lake except enjoy the place, and the feeling that you've literally reached the end of the world, and that if you keep going down the road, you'll very soon fall off the face of the earth. Here be dragons, indeed.

The view from Spangmik

Although there is some touristic movement in Pangong, most of which comes by in shared Jeeps and on motorbikes, there are so few people around - locals included - that the lake holds a feeling of a different century. Even though I can't imagine myself living this way for the rest of my life - or even for a few years, at that - the peacefulness and cosy primitiveness of the place hold a unique charm that can't fail but soothe your spirit, even if you got the place after thirteen hours of bumps, hassles and haggling. The owners of each home or cafe survive for five months every year on the very limited diet mentioned above, and with no diversions around, or no life around as some would say. Indeed, coming back to Leh two days later the place seems at least as big as New York, and twice as noisy. The kids and teenagers I ask around in Spangmik tell me that they spend the winter months in Leh. When I ask which place they prefer they instantly reply that the "big city" is the favorite location. But since the kids all stay at home, with no prospect of formal education, it seems positive that they are destined to spend their mature years in exactly the same way their parents spend them now. In a country that is rushing towards westernization and globalization at an alarming (and I believe unsustainable) rate, this bygone haven providing foreigners with an unprecedented feeling of unison with nature and calmness, only acts as a prison barring these children from the world they have grown to admire and aspire to.

In the past two months I believe a great part of me had become disillusioned of the romantic feeling that draws so many people to India, looking for that something ancient and exotic. The same faux-local commodity seems to be offered, as eye candy or for sale in any tourist spot, while getting of the tourist map into the heart of India is virtually impossible, and seems, at least to the outside observer as a very unpleasant and not very interesting place. I'm so happy to have had the chance to take a sharp turn sideways, even if only for a few days, and see something as unique as Pangong Tso.

Greetings from Pangong Tso

Where The Yak and The Apricots Roam

The Ride

Driving to Leh is breathtaking. No, seriously:

First of all - The scenery IS amazing. Climbing from the Kashmir valleys up to the mountainous regions of Ladakh, leaving the greenery for the arid and jagged scapes of the Himalayas. Crossing the valley leading to the Amarnath cave, where tens of thousands of tents and buses are leading the way for the sacred lights the Hindus flock to see each year. Spending one crazy day where you are subject to sweltering heat, hard rain and snow left over from the past winter, only to finally reach a desert surrounded by temples and snowy peaks.

Secondly - No ride so far in India, has prepared me for the terrifying terrain, or for the recklessness of the driver. Though much of the road crosses plains, there are passes along the way, that are usually narrower than a standard bus, but somehow allow for a truck and a bus to manage crossing each other along the way. The BRO (Border Road Organization) is still "building highways in the sky", but the further you get away from the populated areas of Kashmir, the lesser the roads seem to resemble roads. Add to that the well known fact that many truck drivers along the way are driving while intoxicated, and you've got another reason to hold your breath and make deals with the almighty.

Third - Did I mention this is the Himalayas? Coming from Srinagar (elev. 1,5Km) to Leh (elev. 3,5Km) in one day is bound to cause at least a little bit of AMS (Acute Mountain Sickness). While the Jeep driver and my fellow passengers were throwing away my Ibuprofens as if they were M&Ms, I mostly suffered from the rising lack of Oxygen. The weirdest thing is, that breathing is no longer a natural action, and you sometimes feel the need to take a quick deep breath, just to keep things steady, as if rising from the sea after a long dive.

And finally - The Indians, known as such a caring, polite people, will never miss a chance to pass around a pack of cigarettes. And with my luck it's been so long since I've had a ride with any other Westerners in the car with me (there were three Brits who almost joined the ride, and in the last minute were ushered to a different car). And so, it would take about two minutes after leaving the rest area for the smoke to start feeling up the cabin, and since it's so cold (or hot) outside anyway, you're not going to let a little air in. And I'm not even mentioning the exhaust from other cars (Oh well, maybe I am).

And in the end, after 21 hours of non-stop driving, with bumps, cigarette smoke, exhaust fumes, heat, cold, rain and one drunk guy who was sitting next to me for the whole time, we got to Leh.

The House

When you get to a new place, it's recommended to have the name of a guest house or hotel for the first night. I never do. As a result, when rides end at night time - and half of them seem to - I usually find myself at a shady place, in a shady part of town, where the owner is most likely to be a friend of the driver. But it's been so long that all I wanted to do was get to my room, take a shower and read a book for an hour before going to sleep for two days. So naturally, there was no single room available and I had to share a double with a fellow passenger (an Indian businessman from Dubai meeting a friend who's finishing a trek), there was no hot water, so I couldn't take a shower and, of course, there was no electricity, so I couldn't even read.
Six hours later, very grumpy and dirty, I packed my bag and started browsing the hikers part of town for cheaper, nicer accommodation. It seems like most houses in town serve as guesthouses during tourist season (June-October), and I just happened to knock on the first door on my way, which had no sign on it and no advertisement at all, but whose owner agreed to house me nonetheless.
Though I stayed there for a lovely week, I still have the feeling that this place is not actually a guesthouse, and the owner just took pity of me and agreed to let me stay in for awhile. There were no other guests, and I actually think my room was the only one not regularly used by the family. There was no food or drink offered, though in times when I was having fits with my stomach the owner gladly offered rice soup and black tea to soothe my pains. At one point the owner - an old Ladakhi lady, practically Tibetan - along with the nun who also shares the house, left for two days to visit family at a nearby village, and simply showed me where they hide the keys to the front door and told me to take care of the place in the meantime. Add to that the fact that whenever I was relaxing in the sun in the lovely garden outside with a book the owner would come and engage me in conversation with broken English that very much reminded me (the English and the badgering talk) of my grandmother, and you get a great, homey place all around. Whenever my landlady will feel I have slept enough - say, it was already nine o'clock - she'd wake me up promptly, and one time it was even worth it, because she had kicked me out of the room telling me that the Dalai Lama was in a nearby village in cause of celebrations of his birthday. Naturally, he wasn't - I later heard he spent the occasion in Washington DC - but the masked dances and the singing was still a lovely experience.
And all was well, until I got my eviction notice, for coming home too late and *gasp* hosting a lady in my room! Thank god they didn't know about the my little joint, or they would have had to burn the place down for sacrilege. So being a little over two thirds of a rockstar (sex and drugs, and maybe my MP3 player counts as a bit of rock'n'roll), I had to find a different place, this time at a much more common, run of the mill guesthouse.

The Ultimatum

Though a lesser known fact to those who've remained in touch only by being avid readers of the blog (and you guys have only yourself to blame!), there have been physical issues. They have been troubling non stop. They have been frustrating. And they are ongoing.
Coming to India, I knew a person with IBS is much more susceptible to ailments than the average traveler, but I was unaware of the extent of these problems. Taking the time to try and find a suitable diet, having periods of "forced relaxation", and having used antibiotics to no avail, there were times of great frustration.
After allot of consideration I have decided to prescribe an auto-ultimatum, and give myself till August 1st to feel a change in my condition. If there is to be no change by said date, I'm moving onwards from the subcontinent.
Where to? Thoughts right now are centered around either Japan, Australia or anywhere in south east Asia - depending on cost issues, Visa difficulties and my whims.
Other recommendations are most welcome, and may be addressed to my email inbox for me to consider and discard of.

There is allot more to Leh, and there is allot more to say, but it'll wait for the next time (Internet here is so expensive, 2$ an hour is a rip off!).

Of Course It's Kashmir

Fireflies. It's been so long since I've last seen them. I remember, at least ten years ago, when on summer nights the road leading to my house was paved with them. I wonder what made them extinct in Israel. The road leading from Manali to Jammu is paved with them, Lending a new light (no crappy pun intended) for the nighttime ride.

After almost two weeks in the same spot, after a treatment of antibiotic, and later a treatment of probiotics (quick question: taking antibiotics and then probiotics, doesn't that leave me right back where I started?) I've decided to move on. Manali is nice, and it's definitely an "easy" spot for a tourist, especially an Israeli one. The place is swarming with Israelis, with a scattering of a few American and European travelers - and the small town is filled with internet cafes, traveling agencies and western restaurants offering a ridiculous mixture of continental, Indian, Chinese, Israeli and Italian dishes (the only place on earth apart from Nafis where you can actually order Fatut off the menu, I wonder who would do that).

But it's been enough, and so, having decided on leaving the place, I've started looking into my options. Deciding not to go to one of the places the travelers around me are talking about, I went into a travel agency and picked the one place I haven't heard about at all - Jammu. After 12 hours on a bus with no other foreigner, except the German wife of a restaurant owner from Goa, I realized exactly why I haven't heard any talk about this place. After all, when a tourist comes to Israel, no one says to him "Oh, you must see Azur, it is magnificent", nor is a tourist in America urged to go check out the Nebraskan plains. And that is what Jammu is.
While most rural villages in India are constructed as houses and shops paved along the highway, the bigger cities (and Jammu, at 900,000 people is a fairly modest-sized city) are congested areas, with auto-rickshaws zigzaging through crowded streets, and tons of houses and shops scattered in every possible direction.
Although many parts of Kashmir lie in a mountain-high valley, Jammu does not, and therefor suffers the Indian summer (though to lesser extents then it's southern counterparts). One thing for which it doesn't fall short of Delhi is the humidity. Oh joy. It took me two hours of a restless sleep in a very seedy "hotel" and another quick stroll through to realize that this is not my cup of tea (I later found out that there is a Kashmiri tea, and it's actually a delicious one). Hopping into the nearest travel agency, I asked for any cars going further upstate, towards Srinagar.

As I've already witnessed before, the travel agencies in this country are mainly comprised of small rooms where a person with a telephone can make calls for you to his friends and see if they've got any cars available today. This one however was different, because it didn't even have a phone in the tiny place. A quick ride on a motorbike with the proprietor and I was in another agency, this time with a parked Chevrolet Jeep in the front. Although Srinagar is considered one of the major tourist attractions of the state of Kashmir, I was still the only Faranji on the car, and so ensued another 9 hours of mostly silent travel. It seems like the governmental body in charge of roads in the state is not without a sense of humor, and the signs along the highway were actually quite clever, with some of them being "After whiskey - driving risky", "Gentle on my curves" and "This is a freeway, not a runway". The humor however, is probably lost on the drivers, most of whom don't know a single word in English.

Srinagar's fame comes from Dal, a peaceful gigantic lake located on the eastern edges of the city, and home to around 2,500 houseboats operating six-months a year as floating hotels. The guides warn travelers on various hassles and scams perpetrated on gullible foreigners, and it does seem that there are hundreds of people in the city who have just been waiting for you to come into their lives. However, after the initial headache and upon finding suitable housing, the place is quite a bliss. Having further problems with my stomach, which still hadn't adjusted to the Indian climate/food/air I've decided to take another restful stop, and I can hardly think of a place more suitable. Salesmen on Shikaras (the Indian equivalent of a Gondola) wonder across the lake all through the days offering food, drinks and necessary toiletry for those lazy enough to stay off land for days at a time. Most houseboat owners are equipped with various mind altering materials, and those that aren't are quick to supply themselves from the local salesman. There really isn't allot to do but watch the sun rise and eventually settle, get a good reading going and discover just how fascinating Psychedelic Rock is, under certain conditions.

On one of my peaceful afternoons an older German lady floats by on a broken Shikara, and invites me to join her for a ride. After a little introduction and the necessary basic questioning, she starts to say something about the Israeli tourist-crowd, but stops herself midway, saying that someone like her (German) should think twice before saying anything bad about Israelis. Though I promise her that I am not of the grudge-holding crowd, I later think to myself that she is quite old, and so think about the dialogue in "Walk on Water" and the question of "Where were you when my ancestors died in the camps?". And indeed, a day later, it turns out that the lady is actually some 80 years old, and I regret having left that question unanswered.

That's it for today. Next stop - Ladakh. Two days of travel up to the Indian Himalayas. Wish me luck.

On The Road

India is vast. Trying to tour the entire country is impossible. Preposterous. Geography-wise and weather-wise. You can't do it.

The state of Himachal Pradesh, commonly referred to as Himachal by locals and tourists alike, is tiny. It is barely twice the size of Israel, and populated with just around the same amount of people. A mere 500km from Delhi, it might as well be considered another suburb of the endless stretches of "suburban" communities surrounding the capital. And yet, it's all so far away. First off, the rides aren't measured in minutes, as would be appropriate for the better of part of traveling in Israel, but in hours. Oh, and what hours. The first ride out of Delhi was a bit intimidating. I've heard allot about the condition of buses in India, and so, were approaching the subject delicately. The travel agency promised a "Deluxe bus with AC", which proved to be, naturally neither deluxe nor ACed. And so, from our stinking guesthouse in the heart of the city we left, a bunch of sweaty foreigners (most of whom Israeli) led by a local. At first we merely crossed the Main Bazar, Delhi's tourist hotspot, collecting more travelers on our way. Walking along I couldn't help but think of The Pied Piper of Hamelin. Twenty or so people, blindly following the "leader", who could easily lead us into the bottom of a river if he felt like it. Fortunately, he didn't feel like it (these guys probably work on commission).

Instead of a bus terminal we found ourselves waiting on a main road, sweating profusely, and shoo-ing away the local kids who were trying to sell overpriced water and crackers for the unprepared amongst us.
The bus, which was scheduled to depart at 16:30 maid it's first appearance around 18:00. I have to say that I was impressed. Although not adorned by a familiar Volvo logo or it's kind, it still looked like it could hold us, and haul us safely to our destination. Naturally, this wasn't our bus. Just down the road was another group of tourists, sweating their own territorial borders, who were destined to board the impressive machine that simply swept past us. After a few more visions of rides (some of whom we envied, others we held our breaths hoping they were not The One), we were finally chosen to depart. Although certainly not something I would label as Deluxe, our bus nevertheless seemed to be made of actual metal and appeared to hold an engine deep in it's rusty insides.

And so, we boarded. We were all ecstatic about carrying our luggage along with us into the cabin, since we have all heard horrendous stories about bags stolen and ripped from baggage cabins. It appears to be that our ride was seriously under-booked. Wrong. Although we were by now 30 minutes into our 14 hour drive, we were still inside Delhi. At a certain point in the road the driver turned the bus towards a parking spot, and we stopped. In these rides, no one will ever explain to the travelers what exactly is going on, even though there are at least four people in the driver's cabin, one of whom is there specifically to take care of the tourists. Pretty soon the kids were among us again. Tapping on the glass windows from outside or else climbing aboard the bus before being violently kicked outside by the personnel, they tried once again to sell water, crackers, and now even Coke bottles.
But this stop wasn't destined just for the purpose of consumerism. There were the other travelers. By the time everyone was aboard the bus, the luggage had to be taken outside and secured inside the baggage compartment, where we encountered another phenomenon that was soon to become a formality - the petty extortion employed by the "baggage handler" for depositing our bags in the compartment. This meager payment of 10Rs. (less then 25 cents) insured us that our bags will not be hauled out of the cabin before departing. Worth it, right?

Finally, we were off. The first few hours of driving were still in the great Delhi area. Vast flat terrains, dotted with small or large settlements along the way. As opposed to Israel, the US and Europe, there are no empty stretches of road. There are people everywhere. There are houses everywhere. These places don't necessarily have a name or any resemblance of public facilities, but people are still living there. In one of these unnamed "villages" we stop and pick up a local family of four. During the next 5 hours the two small children spend most of their time throwing up from the open windows. The mother joins them at a certain point. It is incredible, however, how quiet they are. In between retches, the kids don't even whisper to their parents, who clean them up over and over again with the same filthy rag they brought with them when they boarded the bus.

And we ride. We change seats, we talk to anyone around us who is still awake. We try desperately to sleep on these chiropractic nightmare of chairs, while using coats and sweatshirts to block the tiny holes in the ceiling through which the rain keeps pouring in. At the end of the day, it takes us 14 hours to cross a length of road that would normally take about 5 hours to go through. And yet, it's all so far away and new by now. The way the driver is handling the road makes me finally understand the old saying about how there are no atheists in foxholes. Blind turns, red lights, slippery roads and other hazards barely seem to matter, and the one solution to all of them is a rapid nasal honking emitted from the car every five seconds.

Someone once said that getting there is half the fun. It may not be the case here, but it's definitely half the experience.

Indian-English Traveler's Terminology:

Deluxe Bus with AC - Dilapidated, holes in ceiling provide ventilation during rainstorms.
Deluxe Bus - Dilapidated, seats were designed by misanthropic warmongers.
Local Bus - This is the bus you remember from when you were a child (whether that was during the 90's or the 1890's). A fitting hood ornament would be a Lego block. Maximum capacity is a very flexible (to nonexistent) term.
Cautious Driver - One who will light incense (in the cabin) during specially terrifying descents.
Speed Limit - The Brits said something about that in '47, but no one was listening at the time.

Zen and the art of waking up late, going to bed early and doing a whole of alot in between

When people think of Dahramsalla, they usually mean McLeod Ganj. This little village is the seat in exile of the Tibetan government and the residence of the Dalai Lama. When Israelis think of Dahramsalla they usually mean Bahgsu, a peaceful guesthouse-strewn village that houses on of India's "Israeli colonies" - where are you are far more likely to find Falafel on the menu than Thali or Momo.

It seems that allot of the area's charm relies on the suspension of disbelief. The peaceful scenery all around is constantly interrupted by the sound of horns, the litter spread across the roads and fields and the running sewage that has taken control of the water lines in town.
When V. S. Naipaul was writing of 1980's India, he was comparing the sometimes helpful and sometimes harmful qualities of the British occupation of the country, and the growing sense of westernization that had taken control of the country after it had achieved independence. Whether this is attributed to post-colonial development or to the world wide phenomena of globalization, I feel that India is trying to achieve a "Western feel" at a speed which is self destructive. The immense change caused by the touristic boom in the area forces the merchants to equip themselves with products that are not endemic to the region. And indeed, the city is slowly drowning under piles of used water bottles, the tiny streets are gridlocked for many hours every day due to Tibetan pilgrimage and touristic traffic and the underwater sewage system has great difficulties in remaining underwater (to put it nicely).

The town does offer great courses for those interested in Ayurvedic massage, Yoga, meditation, wood carving, jewel making and many more, The hamlets around offer nice day walks and best of all - stepping outside to my balcony I can catch a great view of the Greater Himalayas, and a snow topped peak just up ahead at 4,300m.
And this actually brings me to my main issue - what the hell am I supposed to do here?
Ever since I can remember myself I have always been very aware on how I spend my time. This is not to say that I don't have an inclination to bouts of laziness, because I do, but I tend to hate myself for them. And here I am, in a place where so many people around me are content in spending three weeks in the same spot, not moving, not working, not doing anything actually. How can they stand it?! And I'm not talking about boredom, because it's always easy to fill up the hours. Waking up late, chai, a stroll in the market, chai, lunch, nap, chai, dinner, chai. The days really speed by. But I can feel a type of anxiety creeping up on me. Something in the back of my head that's telling me that I should be somewhere else right now, only I have no idea where that somewhere else is.

My thoughts drift to the next step in my journey. Places I look at in the map remind me of Naipaul's accounts. When I read about Armitsar I think about the massacres of the 80's and when I look at Kolkata I think about the story of a city that is slowly collapsing into itself, due to lacking infrastructures and management. How does one, and for that matter, why would one want to separate the negative sides of the coin that is this country for the sole purpose of maintaining an escapist experience?
And yet, the people around me all seem to be floating on some kind of fluffy pink cloud (and no, not all of them are under various chemical influences) that allows them to see beauty in everything they look at.

I still don't know why I'm here, and I think the first order of business is figuring that one out. So many people in my life have told me that I am one of the people that can't turn off their brains. Maybe this is  so, which means that the only way I can find peace on my way is by figuring out where it is that I'm headed. And if that path has good food on the way, oh well, so be it!

Delhi

Delhi is. Delhi is hot. Delhi is humid. Delhi is noisy, crowded and polluted. Delhi is signs in Hebrew advertising shakshuka in the Main Bazaar. Delhi is stepping one block of the beaten tourist path and discovering that you are the only white man for miles. Delhi is small kids with really strong arms. Delhi is one block of Shuk with 100 different smells (not half of which are pleasant). Delhi is a six lane road with 9 cars, 5 auto-rickshaws and 8 bicycle-rickshaws waiting for the light to change in parallel. Delhi is NOT waiting for the light to change. Delhi is laughing when the owner of the guest house promises hot water in the shower. Delhi is paying one tenth of the original price, for everything. Delhi is endless. Delhi is upper class palaces and lower class hovels. Delhi is realising that "Hellowhatsyournamewhereyoufromohisraelnicecountryshalomsababawouldyouliketobuyflute" is not a word in Hindi. Delhi is meeting people you've met on the other side of the world at the corner of the street. Delhi is not air-conditioned. Delhi is hundreds of travel agencies who are working night as day to get you as far away from Delhi as possible. Delhi is full of history, covered by a fine layer of cheaply-produced commercialism. Delhi is eating with your hands. Delhi is checking that your bottled water is actually bottled three times before drinking. Delhi is nights which are just as hot, noisy and active as the days. Delhi is trekkers on their way to Nepal, acid heads on their way to Goa, monks on their way to Daramsalla and Israelis trying to find their way. Delhi is middle aged American women who have found faith in Hinduism (for a while). Delhi is never ending construction. Delhi is people digging in garbage piles on the street. Delhi is no public trash cans anywhere. Delhi is scammers. Delhi is bargains. Delhi is in a central place, yet so far away from everything. Delhi is McDonalds, Pizza Hut and Subway. Delhi is insane. Delhi is realising that you've just haggled five minutes for 20 cents. Delhi is petty extortions. Delhi is Chai vendors in the streets. Delhi is EVERYTHING vendors in the streets. Delhi is waking up in the middle of the night to take a shower. Delhi is more showers a day than you thought you would ever need. Delhi is unlike anything else, sometimes for the best, and sometimes, not so much. Delhi is dime bookstores. Delhi is fortune tellers and hash traffickers exchanging tips. Delhi is realizing that the dog on the leash is actually a monkey. Delhi is European girls in Saris. Delhi is making sure your wallet is still on you five hundred times a day. Delhi is allot more than I could possibly have seen. Delhi IS.