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.