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.
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.
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