Day 6 - India. Someone suggested that I slant the blog towards current affairs. This past week, India and the US signed a nuclear treaty that didn't seem to please anyone. While this may be a sign of a good compromise, I will leave the geopolitical arguments to other blogs. The prospect of Pakistan and India, two sabre-rattling nuclear powers, scares many. But this story (in three parts) questions just how different the two nations are.

Crossing the Pakistan-India Border

On one Sunday afternoon at the Lahore airport, we queued up for our PIA flight to Delhi. There were thirty-seven of us, none of whom had fully gotten over our nine day tromp around the sights of Pakistan. While the Fort and the Friday prayers in Lahore were of universal appeal to our extremely diverse multinational group, the greater attraction was to the sprawling port city of Karachi with its black sand beaches, camel rides, bazaars, barbeques, gymkhanas, and carpet shops. Every one of us, from the Mexican financier to the English accountant seemed eager to bring home a Bukhara rug. We “got to know someone”, which in Pakistan, is arguably as simple as it is in Turkey. Led to third floor anterooms and cellars across town, we all got our deal. Rather than wrap them up and ship them home, we were convinced by one of our Indian friends to buy some extra luggage and bring the rugs along for the remainder of our three-week trip.

So here we all were in a very long queue at the Pakistan International Airlines counter on our way to Delhi. I was one of the furthest back in the line when a whisper swept down saying the flight was overbooked. We were alarmed but not easily fooled; it was just the kind of riposte that the jokesters in my click would pull. About fifteen minutes later, after not moving in queue at all, I went to investigate. Indeed, there was a problem, I was told. Because we hadn’t reconfirmed our tickets at the appropriate time, our reservations were cancelled. Cancelled! All 37 of them! Since the flight was full, it would take negotiations to get them to open up spaces. In the end, only four of us were permitted to get onboard. Thirty-three were left aghast. The message fell upon our ears like a rock on our toes. Next flight? Tuesday, but it’s full. Rather than get unruly, the crowd became despondent. Some, delighted with Pakistan, secretly wanted to stay. Others were worried that our tight schedule would be disrupted forcing us to omit the Taj or some other expected wonder.

“Any other ideas?” someone asked.

“It’s a forty-five minute drive to the Indian border.”

Quickly, Ammar, one of our group leaders, a Pakistani, made a decision. The three Indian nationals would take the flight along with the one African American as they were deemed to be the most problematic in an overland border crossing. Meanwhile, the rest of us were to shift our luggage to the curb from where transport would be arranged.

It seemed like a good plan.

It was 3:30 in the afternoon and a dusty, swirling wind circled the airport while we waited for Ammar to secure our coach. Just then, a convoy of four pickup trucks pulled up, coughing their exhaust into our face. The women moved away, shielding their eyes with kerchiefs.

“Ammar, where are the buses?” I asked.

“We’re taking these.”

Diplomatically, I coaxed the women to get into the flatbed area of the pickups and to sit knee-to-knee on the wooden planks. Since we had tons of luggage, one of the trucks was dedicated, leaving thirty-two of us to pile into three pickups. The palpable look of uneasiness and dread on people’s faces was irresistible so my friend Danielle shot a couple of unwanted photos. All aboard, we set off on the road. The first fifteen minutes getting out of Lahore’s overpopulated city streets were harrowing; but didn’t compare to the racecar driving on the open road, which passes for a highway here in Punjab. While the scenery was breathtaking, we saw none of it and braced ourselves during the ride, which approximated a black diamond mogul run on a ski slope. The carpet truck sped far ahead, not encumbered by precautions for the safety of its cargo. At some point, one of the trucks ran a red light and crashed into a crossing Datsun. Ammar was on board and immediately jumped off to confront the screaming driver and his brother. Ammar raised his voice and spoke in expletive-peppered Urdu to the brothers, apologizing. In the interest of expediency, Ammar dropped $140 into the hands of the brothers and sped off. We were again on our way until about five minutes later we heard frenetic honking behind us. We looked back, easy to do since we were basically hanging over the bumper, and saw the beige Datsun truck approaching ominously.

Concerned, we stopped again. The brothers said something excitedly in Urdu and slapped $70 back in Ammar’s hand. Apparently it was half-price on accidents on the Punjab highway that day.

(Part 2 to follow on Day 7)

Day 5 - Nepal. In the course of travelling, we are sometimes told stories which are too delectable to not pass on to others. "It didn't actually happen to me but, nonetheless, it's a good story." Occasionally, the stories are just too good - and you are left to wonder if there is just a smidgen of invention in them. Or if there's any truth at all. One such traveller's story was particularly enigmatic; it's about an eighteen year-old in Kathmandu.

Nepal: A Playboy

Waiting for my friend to emerge from the Kathmandu Guest House, I studied the map to trace our path to the gold face of Swayambunath. I could see it from the rooftop through the hazy sun at dawn and today we had a goal to climb it. Along the way, we met a young man with Bollywood hair and a clean, crisp shirt. His name was Kiran and he was offering to show us the way. He had a slightly disgruntled or bored tone to his pitch which we had heard all before. But suddenly, one of our responses shook the magic out of him. “You’re going to Bhutan?! I’m from Bhutan!” Yes, indeed, we were only in Nepal a short time and the flight to Bhutan beckoned. Kiran insisted that he show us the way, regaling us along the way with animated descriptions of our eventual destination. I am living here to make money, was his explanation for being in Kat. It sounded logical.

When we arrived at the Monkey Temple, we were politely told that it is not a reverential way to refer to this great landmark. Sure, the place was filled with 1-metre high playful monkeys but the seeing eye facing out in every direction was a symbol of enlightenment to all Buddhists in the Valley. We walked up the 365 steps to the temple; along the way, we learnt about Kampala, Buddha, Guru Rimpoche, and a variety of other trivia on its history. We also learned about Kiran: he’s eighteen, has a girlfriend, is a great admirer of the king, an ecologist, a fluent English-speaker and he had a Ten Year Plan. For his life. I thought you weren’t supposed to have goals in Buddhist culture. I’m from the less popular side of Bhutan, the South. We’re Hindu. Which obviously didn’t discount him from being an authoritative and excellent scholar of Swayambunath.

On the way down, he shared some tea with us in the makeshift camp of some of the guides.

And by the time we had reached the bottom, we had an invitation to visit his home.

Within a few minutes, we were strolling down a city street which was different than what we had seen in Kathmandu so far. It had a lived-in feel to it, without any sense of commercialism other than a cornershop. We entered a dank stairwell and rose to the second floor hovel which was Kiran’s room. Despite the patchy cement and lack of electricity and plumbing, we could tell that he felt comfortable there and it was now very much a home. Things were strewn about and books were piled high; it was as messy as your typical bachelor pad.

Except Kiran wasn’t a bachelor.

I have a little secret, he confided in us. A story ensued. Only after a few months in Nepal, he became popular with the ladies, one in particular. They had become close. When her father found out just how familiar they were, he confronted Kiran with the village behind him. Save her honour. And so he was wed to this other eighteen year-old who shyly peeked in after a half-an-hour, on her way to do the laundry.

The story did not end there. He had a brother, a close brother whom he hadn’t seen in a year. He wanted to pass him a note and he knew that we were going to Thimphu, Bhutan’s capital “city”. Could you please deliver my message? A request like this, a family news bulletin, was our charge. We held it in high esteem, like a quest. But, he said, please don’t tell him about my wife. My mother would kill me.

Parting with multiple handshakes and a memorable photo of the three of us, we were off with his note.

In Thimphu, we searched for the sweet shop just off the town’s only traffic light. The problem was there were no more traffic lights but we inferred that the major intersection deserving of one was probably where it used to be. A couple of double takes later and we found the sweet shop. A gruff Bhutanese man of about twenty didn’t want anything to do with us. His companion, another boy of about 18, upon hearing Kiran’s name introduced himself as his cousin. We passed the note to this relative who looked at it rather uninterested. I glanced down at Kiran’s writing and noticed that it was laden with errors belying Kiran’s actual educational level. The cousin looked at the note again and somewhat coldly thanked us for delivering it. We wanted to stay and discuss, having heard so much about the dear family from Kiran but the cousin was remiss to talk. We walked out somewhat baffled and disappointed.

Later, I made a guess at what had happened. The cold response to the warm note was due to the fact that the cousin couldn’t read.

Day 4 – the Himalaya

A practical question for today. Often, people ask me, knowing that I have traveled a bit through the subcontinent, “Where should I go on my first trip to India?”

This is such a complex question that I usually stare back as though I didn’t hear them, lost in the analysis of an almost impossible question. I weigh the feelings and emotions I felt in different milieus and finally make eye contact and open my mouth with a gasp, an unintelligible breath of air that says nothing.

So before I try and tackle the bigger question, let’s look at a slightly easier question that I have found myself posing to myself. If I were to go to the Himalaya now, (or for the first time for that matter), where would I go?

The first place on most people’s lips is Nepal. Reflexively, it’s what we think about when we think Everest and the Himalaya in general. It is a country that is subsumed by the Himalaya. It has its share of wackiness and travellers' myths and is a must-see on many an Asian backpacker’s short list. But is it the best choice, right now? The Ananpurna circuit may be too crowded. The reality of Everest is that it’s become more of an accomplishment than the majestic mountain it really is. Plus, the antics of the Nepalese royal family raise an eyebrow or two about safety, volatility, strife, let alone infrastructure, extreme poverty, and disrepair. I’d love to go to Nepal. Love to. But it would be under specific circumstances in a quiet valley with a real local flavour and host.


Mount Everest's signature plume of snow as captured by photographer Jodi Cobb

The number two answer on Family Feud might be Tibet. Oh, Tibet! The Tibet of Richard Gere and the Dalai Lama. But wait, the Dalai Lama lives in Himachal Pradesh, India. And Richard Gere is more often spotted in Bhutan. And Tibet is occupied and Chinese. It isn’t the same place it used to be and yet it is the same place it has always been. To see Tibet is to see it come back alive, a rebirth one day as its native cultural emblems return and flourish is the Tibet I’d like to see. A Potala filled with hope and optimism is worth chanting for.

My pet favourite country is Bhutan, a destination I’ve spoken of in an earlier post and at more cocktail parties than I’d like to mention. “It’s my favourite trip ever!” But indeed, it is more like Tibet than Tibet, undiluted, pure, essential and instructive. It’s everything a Himalayan kingdom should be and it deserves the cliché Shangri-La more than anywhere else. But it isn’t the top choice for so many because it is hard to get in (US$230 a night) and hard to navigate. Plus, the sequoia Himalaya are right at its border and only a handful of 8000m peaks are within its borders. It is an unbelievable find but I’d rather it stay lost.

The inevitable answer for me and for most others is India. Whether it be Kulu-Manali with its kitsch hippie vibe, the exiled splendour of Himachal Pradesh whose various Rimpoche and gurus who still live on its hillsides, Ladakh, the windswept province on the Tibetan plateau, or the marvelous Sikkim with its tea and unique culture and neither-here-nor-there mishmash. (Honourable mention to Kashmir, if they sort themselves out on both sides of the border.) So why India? India is affordable and India is India. It’s got much, much more to offer than its shapely mountains. So where will you see me next? You may find Ee-Ching and me on the streets of Gangtok.

Day 3 - Bhutan


Only when you put yourself somewhere where the clutter falls away, does possession become irrelevant.

It took a trip to Bhutan for me to get there. Where?

Bhutan Is

another excerpt from
Losing Oneself in Remote Asia

So close to heaven, between the earth and the sky, Bhutan is a Himalayan country of one million people seen as the only remaining pure Buddhist monarchy. Reigned by a youthful and progressive King who espouses environment and education as the two tenets of his tenure, the country straddles its traditional roots and its hopeful future. Bhutan is about the size of Switzerland but its mountains are higher, its valleys more beautiful, its ecosystem more pristine. The world's largest unscaled mountain is in Bhutan. Jomolhari, sits sacredly amidst the greatest snowcaps of the region as one of the most beautiful and revered. The great Bengal tiger graces its southern jungles. The blue poppy colours its alpine landscapes. The great snow leopard hunts its snow-covered slopes. The elusive yeti stalks its terrain. The great secret of the natural beauty of Bhutan is that it is almost totally untouched. But how much longer can it remain this way with Internet cafes popping up around Thimphu? In a small shop in a tiny town, I stepped in for a warming cup of coffee and turned to see a row of six monks in their bright orange robes looking up towards me. Rather than being fascinated with the sight of a North Face-clad Westerner, I realized their eyes were fixed on the television beside me, enthralled were they by the lamenting Macy Gray video playing on MTV Asia. The people are gracious Asian hosts and since visitors are so infrequent (6000 per year), they are treated like guests, greeted with warm welcomes, mirth, and pleasant curiosity. Influenced by neighbours India and Tibet, the cultural balance of Bhutan's individual identity is as precarious as its environment. While some label it as a Shangri-La, or a living Buddhist Himalayan national park, it is simply Bhutan, an idyllic place where life can be enjoyed surrounded by earthly beauty.

Think. What can one learn from its people and their philosophy? Their laid-back approach to life is disarming. Keep your face to the sunshine and you cannot see the shadows. They live for the moment, in the here and now. They have no goals to become slave to. Even enlightenment, nirvana, is a Path. It is so much greater than anything you can buy, see, touch, read, own, rent, love, or dream. Finding one's true path while striking a balance. Thinking about my life, I am brought back to what I left behind. San Francisco. The company. The leather chair. The rollerblades. The tangerine couch. The things. Do I need them? Do I want them anymore? Does my new sense of losing myself in everything I do give new or no meaning to these old wants? Perhaps my old life has no purpose if not to find real moments like those in Bhutan. It's like a muscle, traveling. Without the fresh perspective of a new place, a new voice, the imagination atrophies, one's sense for life crumples.

When I left Bhutan, I wanted to put it all in my pocket and save it for later. The wondrous smiles seen at the festival. The schoolgirls in their keras walking through green terraced fields. The chulpa (obelisk) sitting quietly on the hill. The intricate detail of the woodwork of the Dzong (fortress). The empty tsechu (festival) courtyard transformed back to its patient state like the grounds at Wimbledon, waiting for next year. The old man with his walking stick and a bushel-full of kindling, peering at me through my window. The streams gurgling, fresh from their slumber atop Himalayan snowpeaks. A picture of the King listening to a small boy. A yak careening through thick brush. A mask of a manifestation of Guru Rimpoche. A thongrel (60-foot silk tapestry) being hoisted by eight ropes and forty-two monks, at three a.m. A river snaking through a majestic valley. A collection of shoes and sandals outside a temple. An auto repair shop just outside town. A three-day hike to a remote monastery at 13,000 feet. A clandestine disco called Club 2000 teeming with young Bhutanese, hopping to Hindi dance music. A view of Everest from the plane.

Fifteen days in Bhutan won't bring you to nirvana, but maybe they'll put you on the right path.

Day 2 - Northern India

We've all got stories about travelling on planes. Here's one which has been told about travelling in India.



And here's a glimpse of Jaipur:











Tomorrow, we'll head North to Bhutan.