I'm a Hobo with a Chauffeur

I arrived in Delhi without much idea what I'd like to do, other than staying to the north.  My hostel had an in-house travel agent, and I decided to hire a driver (actually not too pricy) to take me all around Rajasthan for two weeks.  Normally I'm not into organized tours, but I thought it could be a nice change from figuring things out on my own.

I want to be charitable and chalk up some of my experiences to different cultural norms as well as the eagerness of people in tourism to share what they think most important.  But whatever their motives, I grew frustrated with men ordering me around, interrupting me, or refusing my basic requests.  I don't want to waste more energy on those ass-hats, so I'll just pass along the advice that if your booking agent is a manic alcoholic, your driver hits on you, and craftsmen argue with you about how you'll wish you had a silk couch cover at wholesale price to recall all your happy memories when you return home, maybe you should in fact bail, and go back to traveling independently.

I did not bail, so now I'll tell you about the good parts of this desert region studded with Mughal palaces and forts, grandeur from the days of the Silk Road.  We started in Mandawa, a small city with semi-restored havelis -- grand merchant homes with Muslim-influenced architecture and decoration.  Beautiful figurative and abstract frescos abound inside and out, and inner courtyards and rooftops provide relief from the heat.  

I happened to stay at a hotel hosting a traditional wedding, and was invited to join.  This was the most underdressed I've been in my life: in grimy pants and sandaled feet, I wore the fleece top that I sleep in as it's my most presentable shirt, and threw on a winter scarf for a scrap of femininity.  All the actual guests were dressed to the nines, the women had gone all out with make-up, hair, nails, henna, perfume, scarves, purses, jewelry, heels, and colorfully patterned saris.  A sort of marching band drum section played, joined by horns and what I can only describe as a mobile calliope with megaphones. The groom appeared, nervously perched atop a horse, and a big group of people crowded together and started dancing down the street along with the band.  Some friendly middle-aged ladies pulled me in to dance, all copying each other's basic moves.  There was a huge feast, complete with guys making fresh naan and roti flatbread with a clay oven and coals.  I should have stayed and partied all night, but I turned in about 11pm.

Traffic had steadily decreased as we went further from Delhi, but the highway goes through tons of small towns where you vie with local markets spilling onto the road, tractors, bikes, camel-drawn carts, and the road itself in varying states of disrepair.  The camels towering above and bumping along were eye-catching, but one day I beheld an even rarer sight -- a dozen Lamborghinis and a MacLaren came blasting from behind.  Somehow they avoided the random cows and dogs that wander on the road, but the sportscars had to crawl slowly over speed bumps at an angle to avoid bottoming out.

I visited the old walled city in Bikaner, with magnificently carved stone edifices and columns.  The narrow, sinuous lanes were like those of an Italian hill town.  Cows seemed as numerous as humans, and it took all one's focus to navigate around their horns and hooves and poop.  I did really enjoy the tangy buttermilk served with the local spicy food.

Perhaps my favorite meal, though, was out on the sand dunes.  I went with a kind and peaceful guide a short way out of town to sleep under the stars.  He cooked some simple lentil daal, rice, potatoes, and chapati over a small campfire.  It was delicious.  It was a full moon, so actually not many stars, but cool and quiet and lovely.

Haveli home art

First time on a horse?  Worried about the wedding night?

In Delhi's Lothi gardens

Haveli outer decor

Fresh flatbread

Desert sunset and fragrant flowers

Incredibly intricate stone carving 

Delhi bazaar

How To Get Your Clothes Washed for Free

If you remember back when I left Alaska, my main motivation for this trip was hiking in the Himalayas.  It was a pact I made with myself to do by/around turning 40.  I was drawn in by the remoteness of Bhutan and legends of Nepal; while the mountains of course extend into India as well, I hadn't looked much into it.  What tipped the balance for me to visit is that my friend Luke is here studying Hindi.  The idea of a friendly face and compatriot to compare notes with was like a beacon in my wanderings.

My introduction to Mussoorie was a wild ride.  Actually, a few wild rides.  The bus speedily snaked its way up the mountain; I scurried across town, a spine-like ridge, helped up the last hill by a random scooter ride; I reunited with the college boys of the day before to see a temple and waterfall, witness high-level haggling, and talk about the big questions in life; and finally up up up to Luke's perch overlooking it all.

Mussoorie has a strong European flavor about it.  It's long been host to upscale prep schools and international programs.  It was the first place I saw an Indian woman wearing a t-shirt (refreshingly casual to my eyes), and the trash cans feature inspirational quotes.

Luke hadn't left Mussoorie since arriving three weeks before, so we spent the weekend in Rishikesh.  Yoga capital of the world!  Ashrams, ashrams, ashrams -- little kids prevailing upon you to buy flower arrangements with candles to float down the holy Ganges -- astrologers and palm readers and crystal healers -- and, somewhat incongruously, shitloads of rafting outfitters (274 companies, according to the internet).  Neither Luke nor I are yoga people (or crystal people), so we went rafting.

We were given some basic paddling instructions.  We were provided helmets and paddles and life vests but not dry suits.  "Well ok," I thought, "it's sunny out and maybe the rapids aren't too intense."  The guide was surprised when I said I could swim; I was surprised when he laughed and said he couldn't.

The river was a beautiful glacial blue.  We boldly plunged into the first minor rapids and sustained a brief soaking splash.  We alternated between calm and fraught sections, thoroughly wet and happy.  Then the guide told us (actually, this whole time the other paddlers translated for us) to jump off and hold the rope alongside the raft.  So in our street clothes and flip flops we clung to the raft as it tumbled and shot between boulders.  Not only could the guy next to me not swim, he uncontrollably shivered throughout the ten minutes we flailed around in the chill water.  Sadly, no photos were taken given the circumstances, and none of us sprang for the guide's GoPro video of our spiritual and bodily purification.

sunset on the Ganga

compact shop

The boys finagled rides from a government jeep, group taxi, and private tour bus.

undulating Mussoorie 

Luke's scholar-boho look travels well 

So touching!

Impressions of India

India is so much -- like how I describe life in NYC, there is everything, to the Nth degree, all mashed together.  Of course, I'm only visiting a small area of an enormous and diverse country for a short time, so many of my impressions are biased and limited.  I'm keeping to the north and being pretty touristy.

Things started off swimmingly, as I inadvertently flew business class (thanks random booking agent!), and so was treated to a comfy seat, complimentary watermelon juice, and line-skipping privileges.  My rosy outlook faded significantly as I was thrust into big-city stuff I'm all too familiar with: deadly traffic, dense air pollution, leering dudes, a general malaise and apathy.  Perhaps I miscalculated; I thought Amritsar would be a softer landing, but I quickly headed for the hills.

I'd anticipated the buses as a trial to be endured, but actually they've been great.  Open and airy, incredibly cheap, reliably on time, they even stop for tasty roadside meals.  For less than $3 I rode eight hours to Dharamshala, adopted home of the Dalai Lama.  Or rather, I chose a spot at the northernmost hamlet of town, Bhagsunaag, which sits about 1,000 ft higher in the hills and is a bit removed from the commercial center.  My host was a gentle yoga instructor whose home perched on the hillside, accessible only by footpath.

The steeply pitched streets and cool mountain air persuaded me to stick with hill stations.  Vanishing from Dharamshala through dense predawn fog like a film noir heroine (or victim), I traveled to Shimla, the former colonial summer capitol.  I was again tucked onto a cutaway ridge looking across to terraced neighborhoods of pink and white houses.  Shimla is very popular with Indian tourists.  There was endless people watching on the main road, and I enjoyed the different photographic poses of families and school groups and couples.

It has been difficult striking a balance between being a wary single woman traveler and meeting people.  Mostly people just want me to buy things, which is harmless enough, but there are quite a few common scams and sketchy characters of which to beware.  Luckily, one friendly local persevered against my initial cold shoulder and we spent an afternoon chatting and walking.  Siddharth and I started off talking 70s rock and blues guitarists and worked our way to politics and monetary policy.  He also made sure I tried the best dosas in town.

A famed narrow-gauge railway (the "toy train") winds through the hills to connect Shimla with the valley below.  It's a popular attraction as well as the most affordable local transportation.  I tried to remain philosophical and keep the 75-cent fare in mind as people piled into the unreserved car.  Sacks of grain, random kids on random laps, guys hanging out the door for adventurous-looking dating app photos, all of us increasingly compressed as we descended innumerable switchbacks and whistled through 102 tunnels.

After some confusion and indecision and late night compromise, I made it to Dehradun.  Maybe it was the lack of a good roadside dinner, maybe it was being dropped unceremoniously next to a trash-strewn overpass at 1am with a handful of overeager taxi drivers the only living beings in sight, but I initially did not feel warmly towards Dehradun.  However, the next day was sunny and full of promise.  I ate at a restaurant run by the same man for 50 years who showed me photographs of its heyday, then set out to explore town. I wandered to a cave where you wade through a river and climb over rocks.  As I splashed my way up between the smooth rock walls, four laughing college guys asked me to take their picture.  We talked, they invited me to have some tea, and we ended up braving traffic on scooters to see more of town.  They were all bright and funny and kind.  And we were coincidentally all headed to the same place the next day.  I felt lucky to meet them, as though a special light shone on me.

The Sikh Golden Temple in Amritsar

The boys

The roads in Dharamshala were very narrow, requiring drivers to be inventive when meeting head on.

Shimla toy train 

My corner room on the gray floor of the building at left 

Cows roam the streets everywhere, including the Dharamshala footpaths

'Round Rum Doodle

*early November; "The Ascent of Rum Doodle" is a satire of turn of the century great-man mountaineering expeditions

--------

As we gained elevation, the nights grew colder and vast snowy peaks thrust into the sky all around.  The nicer tea houses lit fires in the dining room stoves; one owner invited us into the kitchen, which for me was like getting to peek behind the curtain.  There was a propane burner but most cooking was done on a wood fire stove, including roasted popcorn seeds and dried soy beans for a crunchy snack.

Some of my pleasantest meals were those shared with the Kiwis and French people I kept running into, hiking the same itinerary.  In their 60s and 70s, these hardy trekkers outpaced and out-drank me, and warmly invited me to share in their biting political analysis (Kiwis) and discussions of regional cuisine (French).

It took me several days to realize all the tea houses in all the villages had the same menu.  It was a funny mix of approximated European dishes -- pizza made with ketchup, ginger, and squash; spaghetti with ginger and onions; Swiss potato rosti -- and variations on fried rice as well as the Nepali staple, dal bhat.  Dal bhat is rice, lentils, sautéed greens, a few pickles, and potato curry, and you can eat as much as you want.  My guide Nirkumar (and most Nepali people) ate this twice a day, and of course no two cooks make the dishes exactly the same.  My prejudice against rice led me to eat giant platefuls of sautéed potatoes and veggies, satisfying to my midwestern soul.  Nirkumar carried apples and pomegranates and presented one to me every evening for dessert.  

One of my favorite conversations with Nirkumar was when a TV was on one afternoon.  He laughed really hard and said something to the effect of, "Oh, WWF, you know that's fake wrestling, right?  It's very popular, and lots of my friends think it's real, but that's ridiculous!"  Not long after, we got to talking about the coexistence of Buddhist beliefs and shamanism.  He told me people consult shamans about important decisions, sickness, and the future -- but if one doesn't get results, they try another local shaman.  And while Nirkumar always consults them according to custom, he "only believes in them 25%."

We passed through dense little villages, spates of masterful masonry and hand-split slate roofs, orderly piles of hand-scythed grain, tarps of drying chilis, and children requesting chocolates and saying hello.  The sunny days passed pleasantly and Manaslu grew more prominent.  We hiked to the mountain's basecamp to acclimatize, and didn't quite know what to expect as no one had been up for several days.  The way was steep and absolutely stunning: we ascended a rocky path beside a glacier, above its green lagoon, passing its crevassed terminus, eventually along precipitous snowy switchbacks up to a few collapsed tents awaiting their owners' return.

It was stunning, and intimidating.  We went up about 5,000 feet, and I was good and tuckered even after stopping to refuel with some momos (dumplings) at a mountain camp run by two chatty Tibetan ladies listening to rap.  This hike was to prepare me for the pass, two days later...

I remained intimidated.  But actually, the pass wasn't bad.  We started at 4am to avoid wind and have plenty of daylight for the descent, so I got to enjoy glimpses up at the stars and the beautifully imperceptible light that precedes dawn.  We just steadily walked up, over the rocks and snow, until a tangle of colorful prayer flags marked the pass.  I drank some ice-splintered water, took an awkward photo, and we made our way down-down-down, back to the land of plants and bare hands.

Two more days down the river valley and another long bus ride brought us back to Kathmandu.  One of the French women joined me, and we explored the city and its medieval neighbor Bhaktapur.  We happened to be in town for the celebration of the fall harvest, and enjoyed a festival atmosphere with families praying at temples, singing and drumming, and creating artistic works of thanksgiving from grains and beans.  The garlanded shrines flickered in candlelight and bells clanged, echoing in the night.

Nirkumar leads the way down

A big spread of Newari food

Buddhist prayer tablets

Tea house kitchen 

Near Manaslu basecamp

A depiction of the shrine in front of it

Village and yaks below

Bleeeaauuugghhh!!!

Kathmandu to Manaslu

Late October: To the extent it's possible in a dense city teeming with tourists and motorbikes, street merchants and tuktuks, pollution of every sort and temple monkeys, I relaxed for a few days in Kathmandu.  But it's prime trekking season, so I soon made arrangements to hike the Manaslu Circuit (next to Anapurna), a two-week trip.  A rather disorganized booking agent matched me with a guide, and I opted to carry my own pack -- I'd be sleeping and eating in tea houses (hostels, essentially), so it was easy to pack light.

Getting to the trailhead was a journey in itself.  Around sunrise my guide and I alighted on a somewhat ratty bus.  Now, some of you know my dad and brother are amateur racecar drivers, and have been known to deploy their superior reflexes, cornering, and passing-within-inches on regular roads.  So I'm a calm passenger and used to, shall we say, aggressive maneuvers.  This bus driver surpassed anything I have experienced, on the roughest cliffside roads I've experienced.  We overtook *everyone,* honking on blind curves, bouncing over massive potholes and rocks, splashing through shallow rivers, while blasting Nepali dance music.  And yes, there was a lady with chickens on the bus.  There was also the most cocksure and stylish conductor, a guy about 25 who hopped off and on to round up passengers, and whistled and slapped the side of the bus to help signal when we'd squeeze by a truck on a village street.  He seemed to relish his role like a mahout with a well-trained work elephant.

And so, the morning after our ten-hour bus ride, we started walking up the Buri Gandaki River valley.  It took us a while to get acquainted as his English is a bit rusty and my Nepalese is nonexistent, but I quickly realized Nirkumar is awesome.  He's polite and kind, often joked with passing locals, and -- rare amongst men -- didn't hesitate to ask for directions.  Significant sections of the trail had collapsed in massive landslides; all that rain I had in Bhutan also fell in Nepal, with destructive and deadly results.  Now, just a few weeks later, the local people had forged temporary walkways and begun the backbreaking work of fitting stones to reinforce ledges and eventually widen paths for two-way mule transit.

Mules!  While trekkers use porters to carry excess stuff, a few mountaineers ferry supplies to scale the peak of Manaslu, and the villagers rely on mules for tanks of natural gas, food, and construction materials.  The mule handlers' sharp whistles warn of their approach before the animals' clanging bells, and fresh poop is an indication we're on the right path when the trail is obscured.

It was so different not traveling in a big group, with sun all day every day, crisscrossing the river on massive suspension bridges, among lots of local people walking between villages.  It was also different carrying 25 lbs. instead of 10 lbs., and spending the evening indoors.  But I continued the ritual of afternoon chocolate and reading.

Mule traffic jam

Harvest time

Buckwheat(?)

I always got a double to myself

Kiwi friends

Well, hello there...

A rare peaceful moment in Kathmandu 

Bye-bye Bhutan

There's something important I need to share as I finally wrap up writing about Bhutan.  I took Diamox to alleviate altitude sickness symptoms, and it worked quite well.  The main side effect is it makes you pee a lot.  But for me, the main side effect was farting.  ALL. THE. TIME.  Occasionally with enough vehemence it woke me up.  No one else reported this phenomenon but the internet assures me I'm not alone.  Though it was tough leaving the warm cocoon of my sleeping bag, I did see some beautiful stars and magical moonlit frosted landscapes when I peed at night.

It was a trek of extreme contrasts: from sweating under the midday sun to huddling for warmth in the wet night; from mustering all my strength and will to climb as my legs ached for mercy to easily trotting down scree slopes and bouldery riversides; from feeling we'd hit our stride to realizing we quickly approached the end.  Reaching the last snowy pass was a happy feeling for me, of accomplishment and physical vitality, but I also don't like when things end.

We abruptly returned to civilization, walking down a road(!) to a final tent lunch, so very posh with warm washcloths, glassware, linens, and celebratory beers.  That evening our smelly, dingy crew piled into a fancy hotel and emerged showered and almost unrecognizable in new/clean clothes.  We had a day of sightseeing in the capitol city, a mass of buildings and people and cars and culture.  And then suddenly we all dissolved back into our individual lives.

Mostly -- a few of us flew together to Kathmandu, and connecting the experiences in Bhutan with Nepal made for a pleasant transition.  

Last pass!

Bhutan's most sacred lake

Our last camp site, penned in for the evening

Elegant lunch

Glacier!

Our awesome work dude crew

Yaks looking majestic 

The Daily Program

Oct. 4-9

I sometimes slept with earplugs or headphones, depending on the proximity of my tent to someone snoring, village dogs/bark-machines, or soothing river rapids.  On naked-ear mornings, I'd usually wake up to "the boys" (our cooks and horsemen) singing as they heated water and harnessed the mules.  At 6am hot tea and coffee were brought to our tents, followed soon after by warm washing water, which the tidier amongst us likely used to cleanse their faces, but I merely rinsed my hands in after tying my muddy/mule-poopy shoelaces.  I'd get dressed, pack my things, and be prompt for 7am breakfast.

Generous portions of toast, porridge, scrambled eggs, occasionally pasta, and once, to mild shock, chickpeas were pressed on us, accompanied by jam, honey, peanut butter, milk, juice, muesli, and endless tea and coffee.  One of the Czech women always hoped for "eggy bread," a version of French toast that we all loved and smothered in honey and jam.  Stuffed and toothbrushed and rain-jacketed, we'd start hiking by 8am.

Lunch often struck me as colonial-genteel: after hiking four or five hours, we would come to a large blue tent sheltering fourteen camp chairs in a semicircle.  One of the cooks would hand out juice boxes, dishes, and mugs, and pour hot water.  As we rested our feet they would unpack warm rice and entrees from a large insulated container.  Typically there was a steamed or sautéed veggie or two, sometimes finely diced meat, or paneer cheese.  Dessert was almost always fruit, until they spoiled us the last week with chocolates -- most memorably little KitKats on a lakeside in howling sleet.

After either a steep climb or more leisurely stroll, we'd straggle into camp about 3 or 4pm.  I'd instantly remove my soggy shoes and socks and change into my "evening wear" -- an assortment of pajamas, dry sweaters, and a giant loaner down coat.  We'd all gather for tea and cookies or, thrillingly for me, popcorn.  I would try to participate in gracious small talk while barely masking my exhaustion, and attempt subtlety about eating as many cookies as possible.

I'd while away the time until dinner writing some notes on the day, reading, listening to old podcasts, and attempting to spread out my wet things in my wet tent.  7pm was one of the best moments of the day -- SOUP!  Huddled in our many layers by dim lantern light, we'd all buzz about what kind of soup it would be, and await the wonderful warmth it imbued.  Hats came off and smiles lit every face as we spooned life-affirming broth, clutching the warm bowls in our mitts.  The rest of dinner was a carb fest, sometimes pasta AND potatoes AND rice, often lentil daal, and some mixed veg.  We learned that the food wasn't particularly representative of Bhutanese cuisine, with the exception of chilis and cheese and momos (dumplings).  The food was always tasty and varied, but not much lives up to the full-body experience of soup -- although gingery fried potatoes were also beloved.

blue gentians 

Cute school kids

toothpaste-colored lakes

Scouting for Lord of the Rings

One of our guides, Rinchin, looking badass

the ministration of soup