August 17
I rolled into the Hotel at midnight, surprising the staff who were perhaps not used to guests returning so late on a Sunday night. I arranged my wake-up call for 3:30 am and was asked if I wanted room service breakfast. I couldn’t imagine – I was so full from Markus’s gastronomic tour of Delhi. I was also in a great mood because I was flying to Ladakh and couldn’t wait. I agreed to a cup of Chai (tea), and bid a cheery good night to the three gentlemen at the desk. En route to my room I pass a staff member checking his cell phone, give him a friendly smile and wish him a good night, too.
As I was sorting my luggage for the trip, my phone rang.
“Hello, room service. Would you like your mineral water?”
I was confused, but assumed it was arranged by the guys at Reception. As my mineral water supplies were low, I agreed.
Two minutes later the doorbell rings. It is the same staff member I passed on the stairs who was playing with his cell phone. He was smiling.
And suddenly he takes one slow step into the room and moves his arm as if to close the door.
It is remarkable how quickly the brain can process in a dangerous situation. I immediately thought “holy shit this guy maybe trying to rape me one more step and the door will be closed behind him and I will be trapped holy shit holy shit holy shit” and took a very fast step so I was braced against the door.
He must have seen the terror on my face. He backed up a step and showed me the receipt: 22 rupees. Keeping one eye on him I reached for my walled and gave him 30 rupees. Thank God he left and I loudly locked the door behind him.
Who knows what really happened. Innocent misunderstanding? Or did he assume that a single Western woman coming in at midnight was looking for company?
I didn’t wish to deconstruct the situation further. Suffice to say I wanted to learn from my foolishness and for my knees to stop knocking.
The phone rang at 3:15 am – Chai is arriving in 10 minutes. I dread it’s that guy again.
I’m putting on my bags when the doorbell rings. It’s a different guy. I say I’ll take it in the lobby.
The drive to the airport was quick and painless. At the airport security was very tight; my eticket and passport were checked before I even entered the terminal. At check-in I got a seat on the right side of the plane, as requested. I then proceeded to the “Women’s Line” where I have a body (but not cavity) check behind a frosted screen. I got through with an hour and a half to kill which I spent losing myself in a small but powerful collection of incredible photographic books of India. Sigh, * those * are the photos I wished I were taking. I also got caught up in their cookbook collection and delicious selection of travel writing. I barely had timed to buy a dew plum lip balm from Fabindia, a paneer patty and the soundtrack to Slumdog Millionaire – I didn’t want to be subjected again to a Nandu-like interminable repetition of whiny Hindu music.
Two more security checks later I was on the plane. The near-full plane was about 90% tourists, including an enigmatic trio comprised of a short, grey-haired female robe-clad monk flanked by twin Westerners wearing heavy-duty face masks. I didn’t like them. No reason.
The early dawn sky was overcast; I was concerned I wouldn’t see the Himalayas properly. Wouldn’t it be cool to see Everest? Maybe that’s why David the Photographer told me to get a seat on the right side of the plane. Weird vapours began escaping from above and below the overhead bins. Felt very Star Trek circa 1971.
Breakfast comprised warm mush (semolina?) embedded with fun little treasures like black seeds and the occasional lentil, a chocolate croissant (chocolate!!!!!) and fresh papaya and pineapple. Bravo, Kingfisher Airlines!
I squinted my eyes at the thick cloud cover. Are those foothills? Hold on, peaks are starting to appear. I felt giddy. The Himalayas. I try not to think about rugby teams, planes and the Andes. I decide that I will not eat the creepy twins no matter what.
Look, a river with fine tributary tentacles. So remote!
By then the sun had broken through. To my grave disappointment I realized that I was the wrong side of the plane. On the left side the glorious Himalayas sparkled in the sun. Those of us on the right had our retinas singed. All my planning and early arrival for nothing! I frantically scanned the left side of the plane for empty seats, but alas, my fellow passengers were far more wily than I. I cursed audibly.
Sweet Jesus. Past the creepy twins I glimpsed glistening blades of white encrusted mountains, impossibly steep, untouched, servants to no one but the sun. My neck started to spasm.
As we descended I could finally enjoy the view from my window. The sheer immensity and barrenness of Leh’s surrounding mountains came into view. I wondered how there could be life of any kind here, let alone human. It was the most remote outpost to which I had ever travelled. I was dumbfounded by the mountains’ awesomeness. Small, green, heavily-cultivated strips appeared in the valleys, Leh’s welcome mat. Then appeared dusty Leh, with its scattered buildings, rectangles clinging to sides of inhospitably rocky and crumbly inclines. A sense of reverence swells inside the cabin. Collectively we are experiencing something special. This is India?
We had a very fast landing, and prophetically “Save the Best for Last” muzak accompanied our deplaning. We exit straight to the tarmac. Even with the jet fumes the air is spectacularly fresh. Sunny and 16C, my guess. Other passengers shared my ecstatic look of wonderment.
Picking up bags I was engulfed by Israelis who chattered loudly in Hebrew as we filled out our immigration and swine flu forms.
Unfortunately, yet again I arrived in an Indian airport without being met as promised. I earnestly cruised the line – twice – but a placard bearing my name failed to materialize under my eagle-eyed scrutiny. Naturally my phone didn’t work (too easy). I asked a group of guys, “Hotel Mandala?” They shook their heads unhelpfully.
Suddenly I heard someone yelling “Mandala!” I looked up and had to fight the involuntary grin.
It was Stanzin, my tour coordinator for my Ladakhi stay. And he was hot! Really good looking in a Benjamin Bratt, Benicio del Toro kind of way. Dark wavy hair, goatee, light brown eyes. I was going to like it here.
We drive up (and up) to reach the hotel. I observe a heavy military presence. We pass different ethnicities and the inevitable, ubiquitous muslim shops displaying stripped, dead goats. The air is extraordinarily dry. My lips are shriveling by the minute.
The Hotel Mandala is handsome example of typical Ladakhi architecture. Owned by the Minister of Tourism for Jammu and Kashmir (I can’t decide if that’s good or bad), it is white, with elaborate brown wood-carved window frames trimmed in black. I note a dour-looking Western man sitting outside (I later discover he’s French, explaining his comportment.) I am given a traditional white welcome scarf printed with the eight auspicious signs of The Buddha. Pina coladas, take note.
Stanzin and I review the itinerary. Today I am to take it easy, and tomorrow will be easy touring of various sites such as the Hall of Fame. I can’t imagine what that is.
I involuntarily begin speaking more slowly. Is Ladakh permeated with Zen? I am shown three rooms which are more or less equal; I choose one on the second floor. The accommodation is basic: two beds and hot water from 5 am – 9 am (although allegedly the solar heating provides warmish water for the other times of day). I’m not a big fan of Indian hotels’ propensity for locking doors from the outside, but the windows are large enough to jump out of if necessary. There are only two towels (no hand towel), and it wouldn’t be India without a controlled supply of toilet paper. The TV works, leaving me with one additional outlet. My window overlooks a pretty garden, rooms from the resort next door, and those incredible mountains. It is impossibly sunny.
As I begin settling into my home for the next fortnight the alarm suddenly goes off in my stomach. I rush to the bathroom and my guts explode. I try to ignore that the bathroom screen vents onto the public hallway for all to hear.
One pepto bismal later I meet Stanzin downstairs and request an additional towel and bottled water. Yes, yes, Stanzin assures, we’ll send them up.
Ten minutes later the towel wallah arrives with two towels. He notices my other towels on the bed and confusion reigns. He thinks I don’t know what they are and tries to explain. Then he tries to take them away. We negotiate the release of three towels into my guardianship.
No sign of the water, however. I nap for four hours.
My sleep is deep and dream filled. I am in Leh, which because of its remoteness is very popular with celebrities. I spot Angelina Jolie from a distance, then notice Brad Pitt standing more closely accompanied by three white boys with dirty blonde hair in bowl cuts. My father asks: did I bring my hockey equipment? I am crushed; I only have a pale yellow hockey jersey that is way too big and not even mine. I join a tour group with Alan Alda who looks like Alex Trebec. The phone rings. It’s my 1 pm lunch wake-up call, as promised.
Meals are served in a large dining room. Only one table is occupied, by eight grubby 40+ year-old travellers who I suspect are French. I sit on my own and am served a thick potato corn soup. Overall very tasty, although some of the corn is quite crunchy. I observe that, like my room, there is no discernable source of heat. Not that we need it now – in the sun it must be 30C – but what happens as the nighttime temperature races to single digits?
I attempt the buffet, modestly. I have my first papadum of the trip, small spoonfuls of dal, eggplant curry and paneer in a creamy tomato and pea sauce. I also have my first gulab jamun for dessert, all surprisingly tasty. And I purchase two bottles of “Leh H20” for 30 rupees each.
I return to the room to apply sunscreen, grab my journal and seek a quiet spot in the garden below.
Ladakh really is a magical place. If I were religious, I would say I feel closer to God here.
I am stopped by Reghi, one of the hotel employees. After completing the Indian interrogation trifecta (where I’m from, if I have a husband and if I have a baby) he shares that he is from Manali, making him neither a local nor a Ladakhi speaker. He asks if I’d like a massage.
“Do you do the massage?” I enquire.
“Yes, I do massage.”
I am dubious, but forge ahead. “How much?”
“Pay what you want,” he answers.
Oh yeah, one of those, I think. He then says that all the massage parlours in town are closed.
“Why?” I ask, intrigued.
“Because last year a girl, there was a rehj. They close all massage.”
This I have to pursue. There was a rash outbreak in the Leh massage circuit?
I ask again. “I don’t understand. What happened?”
When he repeats himself my skin goes cold.
A girl from Mumbai was raped last year in one of the massage parlours. Holy shit – flashbacks to last night, fury boiling thinking about the pending Afghani constitution allowing rapists to get off scott free by paying blood money to their victims and which allows husbands of wives who withhold sex to deprive their spouses of food and money. From the top of the world I silently radiate a holler of rage that skims the Himalayan crests and ripples through the adjoining valleys, picking up speed as it ricochets through Pakistan, Afghanistan, Tibet, China, ascending to the atmosphere as it shatters into a trillion shards of rose-coloured injustice which dusts the planet in an invisible iridescent blanket.
“So yes, let me know if you want massage,” Reghi asks hopefully.
Sitting in the garden I am pestered by house flies who persistently buzz around the back of my rattan chair. I wonder if there’s a pile of poo nearby.
As I sit, quietly writing in my journal, I am hit by the realization of how happy I am. I love writing. It’s a moment I have gone back to repeatedly during darker times.
Suddenly I hear a noise of grass being ripped. A cow has wandered onto the hotel grounds, contentedly eating the lawn. Bemused, I watch her go further into the grounds. I hear a “hut” noise and one of the staff members comes running after her. Boy, could that cow move. I asked if this happens often. “Sometimes,” the response. I offered to chase the cow away next time. “Ma’am, you don’t have to,” he answered.
Whoa, when those clouds come the temperature sure plummets. There can be a 10 degree dip in 10 seconds.
After a mediocre buffet dinner I head to bed for 9 am, after I’ve allowed 30 minutes for my malaria pill to pass through the esophagus. (Argh, I keep forgetting to take with dinner.)
Alors, les etoiles! The sky is awash with winking lights. I’m convinced I see the red planet to the west.
The room is warm. I sleep with the windows wide open. My dreams wake me up at various points in the evening – I am being chased by an evil man who conscripts an army of minions to trick their way into capturing me, but I continue to outwit them. I may choose the wrong side of the airplane, but dream minions are no match for me.
