Adam and Tina

With our experiences on the Indian trains in Kerala and Rajasthan behind us, we weren’t looking forward to another train ride. After a couple hours of online research over an internet connection that puts my patience to the test, we discover that it will be many thousands of rupees to fly to Bangalore. We decide we can’t possibly afford the flight, which leaves us only one option; the train. We search a little deeper and find that the flight from Delhi to Bangalore is reasonably priced, but flights out of Varanasi are overpriced. We rationalize that any option saving us from a 57 hour train and the Varanasi airport can’t be all bad. In my stomach, I could feel we were embarking on an adventure. In hindsight, that feeling in my stomach was really something else.

We request that our hotel staff goes to the train station to buy our tickets for us, which saved us hours of painful waiting time. We had bought tickets for the highest available class on this train, which was 2AC, offering larger beds, heavy air conditioning and navy curtains which partially blocks people from peaking in. The ticket was more than four times the price of the lowest class, the sleeper class, but we knew it would be worth the money. We methodically packed all our belongings, including our new Varanasi bamboo flute which we bought because the merchant was a creative comedian. I ripped up the room to make sure we hadn’t missed anything, and dragged our bags down to the baggage room, before we checked out of the hotel.

Tina had her heart set on the marinara pasta at Pizza Hut, so we walked to the shopping mall down the street and ordered takeout. I went to McDonalds for a savory and healthy McVeggie burger and an ice cream sundae. We left the shopping mall to find our Sarnath taxi driver lined up outside, and he had not forgotten us. “You pay four hundred rupees for extra restaurant, then for Pizza Hut. Cost more.” Incomprehensible that this man thinks he can make me feel guilty for paying his agreed price. “Four hundred rupees was the price you agreed on. That is what it was worth and I paid.” As we took off in a cycle rickshaw, the taxi driver continued to fumed in a much quieter manner. I respect the Indians for being consistently persistent, even if I don’t agree with their tactics.

Train station lobbies turns into public hotels at night time.

We passed the price-fixing congregation of rickshaws outside the hotel, and found a reasonable negotiator out on the main road. He got us to the train station, but not before demanding more money. We weaved our way through the fields of rolling corpses in the station hall and found our way to the Varanasi to Delhi platform. The first platform we were directed to was the wrong one, which we only find out after Tina does some more probing of the station officials.

We heave our bodies up the overhead walkway to cross the railway tracks to the final platform. We descend into an open mausoleum. Bodies are strewn over every inch marble, lying awkwardly and appearing only half alive with no movement like a terrible war had just stripped the life of hundreds of men, women and children. Tina spots a small patch of ground space just beside the tracks further up the platform. We claim the spot and take a seat while we wait for the train. As we waited, I peered across the tracks and through the chain linked fence to a shack that was barely standing but still inhabited. A family was outside sharing a meal of rice, and I couldn’t help but feel for what appeared to be a very difficult life.

I looked to Tina to say “How could they possibly live with trains passing them all day and night, only meters away?” I knew the answer as soon as the words left my mouth. They literally had nothing except each other, and yet they were smiling.

Tina and I had a bet that the train would not have a restaurant or kitchen car. I had seen the restaurant cars in Europe and didn’t think there was any possibility that the Indian trains would have anything similar. The other trains we’ve been on had no sign of a kitchen, only sellers rounding the carts offering chai, soup, samosas and common Indian snacks. As soon as we found our seats, Tina couldn’t wait to search the train for the kitchen car. “I win! I win! The kitchen car is three cars to the right. They have pots on the stove and a menu that’s surprisingly cheap.” I couldn’t believe it. I went to get us a cup of tomato soup to prove it. It wasn’t much longer before my stomach was telling me I had lost more than I had bet. I had to cut our game of euchre short, which frustrated Tina who had managed to beat me consistently in a game I had just taught her how to play. I ran to the bathroom, and stuck my head down towards the metal hole in the floor. The wind flying up through the Indian toilet wasn’t enough to keep the bathroom smelling rank. I definitely didn’t leave it smelling any fresher. It was a long night. Tina and I tried to rest curled up on a bed that is too small for me.

The train system was built during British occupancy and still remains today (without much change it seem) since India’s independence in 1947.

We finally arrive at Delhi’s Paharganj railway station, and my stomach couldn’t thank me more. I felt like I was about to drop a lung and can’t do enough to rush to the only toilet in the area; a paid toilet with a long lineup. I push my way through the line and reach the ceramic hole in the ground just in time. We booked a taxi the night before, and fought with the driver to come find us at the right gate into the station. Ironically, the driver was the same man who drove us to Agra, and scammed us by using the air conditioner, just a few weeks ago.

We had only a few hours before our flight and headed off to spend it with Puneet and his family. We talked, ate exquisite sandwiches and recovered from the uncomfortable train ride. Puneet warned me that even he does not eat the food on the train. His family is always very careful to bring their own food before they embark on any excursions. “You do not know where that food is coming from or how they make it. Everybody know food on train is not good for you.” I certainly learned my lesson. Yet again, Tina was surprisingly healthy despite having consumed more than I. It was long before we were off to the airport to catch our very budget SpiceJet flight to Bangalore.

Arriving in Bangalore, the sky was pouring and we were forced to pull out our rain jackets for the first time. Our hotel was one of the cleaner place we stayed the entire trip, as the staff was clearly catering to business professionals. Newspapers were brought to our door every morning and they had a lounge area connecting the rooms. We arranged a meeting for dinner, took a desperately needed shower and nap.

Dinner at Puneet’s house was waiting when we arrived. They are the best!

Tina had a couple friends in Bangalore who were very anxious to meet us. We invited them to the hotel restaurant, and I was quite glad we did. It was really amazing to get to know the brothers, who own a real estate development company in Bangalore. “We usually just go to Subway.”, they responded when asked about their favorite restaurant. I was completely taken aback as the dinner conversation was very reminiscent of home. Topics include business management, the internet and personal development. We ended the night by getting a picture together on a Blackberry.

When we woke up the next morning, we had only twenty four hours to explore Bangalore, get ourselves to Chennai and get to the airport for our flight to the Andaman Islands. We rented a car, and had the driver take us directly to the train station. We needed train tickets and we had no time to waste. Unfortunately, the staff at the train station had another idea for us. There weren’t many people in the station, but no agent would serve unless we were in the Foreigner and Special Assistance queue. This counter was intended for seniors and people with disabilities, and included a ramp to roll wheelchairs up to the window. Even the empty women’s line wouldn’t serve us and redirected us back to the Foreigner sign. This counter was also the only unmanned station, excused by a note from the agent stating she was on a break. I got my first taste of Bangalore civility from the man sitting in a row of chairs beside the window. He had been there before us, mostly ignoring our frantic Indian attempts at locking up the space in front of the window. Occasionally, we would passively mention “There is a queue here. You are next chair.” After a while I could help but follow his advice because he was being so honest and civil in his manner. We wasted more than an hour in line, until the agent finally showed up and sold us two seats in the chair car at four in the afternoon.

I had only one place to visit in Bangalore, and it was Electronic City. Known as the Indian Silicon Valley, I could only help but be curious about what it was really like in the bustling tech capital of Bangalore. Electronic City is about an hour drive outside of downtown Bangalore, and definitely cured my curiosity and skepticism of Indian technology business. The Infosys campus is grand to be sure, a Microsoft style compound surrounded by thick stone walls and cameras. Nothing was more of a contrast in India than here, were the walls literally separated the chaos of life in India with a Californian utopia of lush greens and clear glass structures. Even the flying dust of construction and garbage seemed to disappear at the wall leaving only fresh blue skies. Despite our best efforts to break the security at the main office, we were unable to get ourselves onto the campus, but I had seen enough to satisfy the nagging questions in my head. It really does exist, it really is grand, and it is obvious why outsourced technology jobs are so prestigious and competitive in India. Being employed at one of the multinationals in Bangalore, Chennai, Mysore or Hyderabad, is really the really the difference between a comfortable life and a challenging one. Once you are welcomed onto that campus, you are welcomed into a different world within India. After being rejected at Infosys, we rolled around the rest of Electronic City before heading to the shopping mall to fuel up before our train ride.

The shopping mall was at least as western as everything else in Bangalore. It was the largest mall in the city, but could have been a medium sized mall in Seattle. We found everything we needed in the food court, as well as sunscreen in three different stores. Indians don’t traditionally use sunscreen, so this should have been a difficult item to find. We grabbed some Pizza Hut takeout and Baskin Robbins ice cream and were on our way.

The Bangalore train station was strikingly modern. The underground passageway still smelt overwhemingly of urine, but was quite devoid of people. The platform was well marked and easy to locate. Those waiting for the train were standing with dignity instead of lying on the ground. Even the beggars had the decency not to pester anyone. I felt comfortable for a time.

“Why are you making the seat dirty? You would not do that where you are from! You are using the same shoes you use to go to the bathroom! Do you think just because you are in India you do not need to be civil?” I couldn’t believe the gall, the nerve of this man. I get down off the seat I was standing on to put our bags up on the high baggage racks, and turn around. “You know this man cannot sit in his seat now that you made it dirty.” I look around and the train is entirely empty. There are so many empty seats there was no need for them to be assigned. I look down at the seat. There are so many stains on the leather that you couldn’t visibly identify the marks my shoes had made compressing the cushion. I look at the man who is supposedly out of a seat. There are lots of words to explain his appearance, but respect-worthy cleanliness was not one of them. “I live in America, and I know in America people would not do that.” I chose not to rebut the rude grey haired man sitting across the aisle, for his irrational arguments were not coming from a mind willing to listen to reason. Tina was about to blast him, but I just looked at her and we both knew what the best action was. Needless to say, I was more careful of the seats on the way out.

The conductor of the Bangalore Chennai train was overtly efficient. He enticed with drinks, snacks and a meal, which Tina thought was a wonderful surprise. She even saved her Pizza Hut pasta to consume the meal she was served. I held my ground. After the sip of soup 24 hours earlier that still resided in my digestive system, I could not take the chance of aggravating it further. Tina was all too happy to scavenge the best bites from my plate. We played a few card games until I decided I needed to return to my strengths and picked up a book.

There’s no such thing as a line. People squeezing on a SpiceJet flight.

We arrived in Chennai and made our way to Brian’s flat, a midway from the train station to the airport. It was absolutely fantastic to see our friend from Ladakh again. We had the chance to marvel at his diverse matchbox collection before a good rest on a comfortable bed. Thanks Brian and his wife! We really appreciate your hospitality. It made all the difference in the world, and a fond memory.

Tomorrow, we’re off to the Andaman Islands!

There is no place in the world like Varanasi. The town on the river Ganga has been marked as one of the oldest inhabited regions in the world, and it shows. It’s not the Ghats, the water or the spirit that is most breathtaking, but the corruption and deception. Varanasi considered one of the Holiest cities in India, attracting hundreds of thousands of pilgrims each day to bathe in the river water.

Varanasi is a stark contrast from the mountainous plateau of Ladakh. The temperature was a humid twenty to thirty degrees higher, forcing Tina and I to shed all the clothing we could immediately upon arrival. The clear blue rapid waters of the Indus river were replaced by the centuries-old pollution of the relaxed Ganges. The picturesque mountain ranges were noticeably missing from the dirty and crumbling ruins of mass and ancient civilization. The deepest contrast was in our interactions with the locals, who really left me dumbfounded.

By the time we reached Varanasi, we were tired from long flights and dirty from spending eight days in a beautiful place with no running water. We were really looking forward to checking into the hotel we booked and just relaxing for a few hours. The flight was bearable, but the airport was not fit to land airplanes. In typical Indian fashion, as soon as the plane lands, we jumped from our seats to grab all our belongings, then pushed our way to the door. Tina and I managed to be first off the plane and into the airport.

From the tarmac, we were led into a room no bigger than a condominium with a scatter of carts and an exit to the parking lot. I raced to grab a cart and fought my way up to the baggage claim. It is especially important to be on top of the conveyor belt as the bags come out in Varanasi because the belt runs about five meters and drops bags into a pile on the ground. This was the only airport conveyor I had ever seen that doesn’t loop back!

As I tried to display my manly strength to fend off would-be baggage-claim spot stealers, Tina eyed the well marked pre-paid taxi booth, hoping to get us a car. When she came back, she exclaimed “There is something really fishy about that pre-paid taxi booth. They wanted to charge me five hundred rupees, which is a lot more than that ride is worth. I think we should try looking outside.” I collect our bags, and agree with her assessment. As we passed through the gate to the parking lot, the man from the pre-paid taxi booth yells at us to come back (usually a sure sign someone is trying to rip you off). Once we got outside, Tina spotted another pre-paid taxi stand. The man at this desk knew Tina by name because our hotel called ahead to notify them of our arrival. Tina denied that was her name, as she knew that the price would be double the rate to compensate for the driver having to drive to the airport to meet us. We paid the three hundred rupees or so, and a seemingly kind man offers to help our bags to the car. Before reaching the car, the man introduced himself as the car owner and explained how he runs his own value-added service of charging passengers a parking fee for his cars to park at the airport. We know we’re getting ripped off, but the owner continued to argue with us for five minutes after we were loaded and ready to go. We finally got out of the airport, only to have the driver stop moments later to put fifty rupees of gas in his car from the third pump he tried. Unbelievable! What could possibly happen next?

Top: 3 people hopped on our rickshaw randomly while we were in it. Varanasi, India.
Middle: View from the rickshaw. People and cows, typical Indian street.
Bottom: Street along the Ganges. Lots of owner-less cows, donkeys, and dogs.

We arrived at Hotel Buddha to a pleasant surprise; it actually looked clean and well kept! The bus boy came out to help us with our bags, and we were immediately escorted into the lobby. The clerk found our reservation and had the owner show us the rooms he had available. We found a room with a tub and a balcony, and chose it despite the price and the brown stains in the white tub. We settled in and took a well deserved nap.

Finally, a moment’s peace! After I awake, I turn on the water and prepare to take a shower. While I’m admiring the night-use-only restriction posted above the air conditioner, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a member of the hotel staff traversing the roof immediately outside our window. Both Tina and I were mostly undressed and he stopped to take a look, until he noticed me and moved on with his business. Tina frantically cried for decency in India, but got no reply.

The day passed and we decided to ask the hotel restaurant for something nourishing enough to fill our stomachs. We sat at a table in the back of the empty fishbowl of a restaurant, and order to our hearts content. We saw the kitchen on the way in, and they had clean metal tables, so we were in for an uncharacteristically clean treat. It wasn’t not long before the owner came in and started some small talk. “I organize Varanasi tour everyday. Start at five in morning. We give Ganga boat ride for hour and half, then four Varanasi temples. We show how silk tradition is made. Price is 250 rupees each.” A tour for the both of us at 500 rupees sounded hard to beat, and Tina absolutely could not wait to get her camera down to the Ghats. We accepted, and I grudging rolled out of bed in the middle of the night.

We made our way down to the main lobby and were carted into a rickshaw, which served as our tour vehicle. The driver took off down the minefield dirt roads on his “fastest” route to the Ghats. After getting lost only once, he arrived on a cow dung covered street, just as the city was being touched by the sun. Tina was in a hurry to capture the magic of India’s holiest city bathed in the morning glow, so we took off running down the street towards the Ghats. The buildings cleared and we got a glimpse of the mist rising over the endless flights of stairs down to the brown murky waters. Our rickshaw tour guide found the boat driver, who lead over a thirty meter swamp to his barely seaworthy vessel. He pulled a collection of rotted wood out of the floor for a foothold, secured his oars, and pushed us off. I offered gratitude to my scarf for protecting my nose and lungs from the terrible smell of death in the air.

Top: Many pilgrims along the main ghat doing their morning prayers and washings.
Middle: Some boats can carry many people.
Bottom: Many tourists and many boats in the Ganges, the most popular tourist attraction.

The glide down the Ganges was not as peaceful or spiritual as the tour books make it seem. Our boat driver couldn’t stop talking about how he barely makes any money and is being swindled by the man who owns the boat. When he’s not talking, he focused on hooking us up with the various tourist scams floating down the river offering flowers, candles and souvenirs. A large man, who was a much quicker paddler than our driver, placed a paper plate covered in flowers and flaming candle into my hand, suggesting that it’s free. He guided my hand into the water, then requested thirty rupees. I gave him ten and told him to get lost. Our driver returned to his docking Ghat after an hour, and yelled after us for a tip. We ran off in search of the rickshaw tour guide, stopping only to double check faces.

The famous Varanasi monkey temple had its monkeys, though there weren’t that many, and those that were there were very hostile. When we reached the temple, Tina and I were snarled at and nearly attacked by a larger monkey who could have bit my toes off. The temple itself was different, but not especially noteworthy. The next two temples, I found more memorable. The largest temple we saw was built by a son for his mother, in an uncharacteristically massive two story marble building. The idols depicted stories of the Hindu Gods so well you could read them like a book. This temple had the fewest patrons, and was the most peaceful, so Tina and I were able to enjoy a spiritual moment of self reflection and energy.

Another temple, I nicknamed the working man’s temple for men and women in dirty suits and sarees would pass though in a ritualistic manner, following a train of people around the temple grounds. We got the chance to enjoy a man and older women fighting over space in front of a deep black pit to perform their flaming pujas. The final temple was built in the name of Gandhi and featured a thirty meter wide carved topological map of India and the surrounding regions. On the way back to the hotel, our rickshaw tour guide chose the same potholed road, and Tina was swearing that she would never ride this road again. I was in too much pain to do any swearing.

Top: Adam and Tina taking a reflective photo at a grooming station by the ghats.
Middle: Happy groomers/hair-dressers servicing customers along the ghats.
Bottom: A man relaxing at a groomer’s service station.

When we got back to the hotel, we voiced our opinions of the tour to the hotel owner. “Our boat ride was half an hour short. We were not taken to the Hindu University’s Golden temple as promised. We were taken to a tourist silk shop instead of being shown how to make silk.” After a lot of arguing, he agreed to accept whatever we thought was fair. I put three hundred rupees down on the table. We knew how much the boat driver made, and how much the rickshaw is worth, so we knew that three hundred would easily cover his expenses. The owner was visibly disgusted, would not take my money, and stormed out of the room saying that he would pay out of his own pocket. I felt no sympathy for him, but neither Tina or I felt comfortable staying at his hotel any longer. We booked another room, packed our bags and immediately checked out.

We moved from Hotel Buddha to Hotel Surya, and wound up paying less for an even nicer place, though we were further from the Ghats. All the talk at Surya was about the upcoming Hindu holiday, Holi, a day designed by children for children. Except that everyone participates. The idea behind Holi is that everyone dresses up in their worst clothes and ventures out into the streets to have an India-wide color fight, throwing buckets of liquid chemical pigments at each other.

We met several exploratory foreigners who thought this holiday was the most exciting party they’ve ever been too, and ventured out to get their khaki cargo pants, white t-shirts and blonde or white hair all discolored. Some were embarrassed by their unnatural color like they disowned the holiday, but the younger tourists were wearing it proudly. Tina’s dream was to be down at the Ghats for Holi, though we were recommended by several not to venture out into the streets on this day. “The lower caste does not understand, and often throw harmful things like rocks, dirt and glass. Many people get injured in Holi every year.” We decided the compromise was to get another hotel room along the Ghats for the night before Holi, and hang out at the rooftop restaurant until later in the afternoon. We were safe and the entire ordeal was vindicated when Tina was able to capture a shot of a bum circled in white cloth against a deeply purple painted store. She tells me that this shot will win a National Geographic award.

Top: Local news anchor interviewing people at the ghats during Holi. Varanasi, India.
Middle: Husband pouring a bucket of red-dye down his wife during Holi.
Bottom: Outside a store after Holi, where a homeless man lays a sleep.

For the rest of the week, all I could think about was getting out of there. I hadn’t been negative about any place in India so much as I was about Varanasi. Tina adored the Ghats and had wanted to stay longer. It was finally her opportunity to get the pictures she came to India to capture; the babas, sadhus and pilgrims that collected at the Ghats everyday. We met some amazing sadus and Tina had a way of communicating with them without words. They exchanged food and smiles, Tina gave her fruit bars and sadus offered her seeds to nibble on.

There was always a show going on at the Ghats, and the show usually involved hassling the foreigners who come to enjoy India’s Hindu traditions. There are more touts and wallas per meter along the Ghats than anywhere else in India. I learned the fake sadhu smoke test; I would wait for them to request something from me, as a real sadhu is truly happy with what he already has. I was afforded a lot of opportunity to practice saying no like I really meant it. After a couple days, I was finally able to find some enjoyment in escorting Tina to the Ghats every morning and evening, just by releasing my hostility, relaxing and taking it all in.

One afternoon, we found a ride to Sarnath; a famous Buddhist pilgrimage site where Buddha supposedly gave his first sermon and met his first disciples. A middle-aged driver and his mate took us on the hour drive to the suburb for a reasonable last minute rate.  Though we didn’t realize the price included probing conversation. “Are you married?”, the friend asks. The conservative Indian culture still has no concept of boyfriend or girlfriend, and offers no middle ground between friendship and marriage. Tina and I just told everyone we’re married because it makes the conversation easier and saves us of the disapproving looks. “As a matter of fact, we have been married about a year now.”, I replied. “How many children you have?”, he insisted. I’m a little thrown back by this question as I have no intention of having children for at least a couple years. “No children. Zero.” “How many children you have this year?” The man in the passenger seat is very persistent with the newborn questions. “Zero. No children this year.” “How many children next year?” Now, I decide to change the subject. “Are you married?” He is all too happy to answer this question. “No, not married. I have many girlfriends. Girls call all time. After work every day I go see girls.” I sat back smiling and nodding as he showed off his cell phone contact list, backing up his prowess with the ladies.

Top: Sadu peacefully sits during sunrise.
Middle: A homeless man, waiting for morning donations.
Bottom: Laughing grandma.

Our final days in Varanasi seemed to get easier. The rickshaw drivers, touts and wallas recognized us now, though they remained persistent in their objective. I was able to find my own peace in the chaos of the ghats and maybe even appreciated the place. I jokingly bargained with a comedic flute walla and ended up buying a semi functional bamboo flute for a hundred rupees, down from three hundred. Tina laughed while she flashing her camera at a gold loving sadhu whom I loaned my bright red sunglass for the sake of a picture. I flex my ribcage watching the famous hand masseur capture an unsuspecting tourist in his grip. I certainly wouldn’t want to stay in Varanasi any longer than necessary but I felt proud of myself for getting past the ruthless face of the town and appreciating what life has to offer. Being escorted by the most beautiful and energetic girl I could imagine is really the origin of the change in my personality. Her joy resonates deep within me, and warms my cold attitude, even in the time when I find it most difficult to be positive. Love is just the most wonderful thing.

Our Baba/Sadu friend who asked to try on Adam’s sunglasses for fun.

After the high intensity action and sleepless nights in Delhi, Tina and I both took a breath of fresh air when we arrived in Ladakh. The air-born pollution in Delhi is as suffocating as opening your window in Beijing, and the calm mountain air was exactly what the doctor ordered. Unfortunately, we hadn’t anticipated poisoning ourselves.

Ladakh is a secluded valley nestled between two mountain ranges in the Kashmiri region, at the very north tip of India, not far from the Chinese border. The valley is so secluded that historians claim the form of Buddhism practiced here precedes that of Tibet and the rest of Asia. Otherwise, culture and life is similar to a modern (and free!) Tibet. Ladakh was the first area of India we encountered that wasn’t overcrowded. The population growth is a steady twenty five people a year. The respect given to monks and nuns, as well as societal and environmental values, keep Ladakh’s native population to a very small town feel. Locals are so compassionate that we hitch hiked twice during our stay, a practice that is as common as taking the bus. In the summer, the valley gets flooded with tourists who come in search of nature, majesty and peace. The economy in Leh is the tourism industry, meaning that business is good for four months of the year, and goes into hibernation the other eight months. The Indian army maintains a significant presence all through Ladakh, as it is the closest safe zone to the war-torn area of Kashmir. There is little evidence of Indians integrating themselves into society there, they mostly hide in their heated shacks behind barbed wire along the one major road. Kashmir has been relatively safe for some time, and army’s only remaining purpose is keep the snow covered highway clear.

Top: street vegetable sellers laughing.
Bottom: our hotel room with mountain facing windows. Leh, India.

Life ranges in altitude from three to six thousand meters above sea level, which means elevation sickness is guaranteed. The first step off the plane was a great contrast from muggy thick air of Delhi. I instantly felt healthy and full of energy again. We were weary of trusting anyone at the airport, but Tina found them to be so warm and helpful that she couldn’t resist chatting with them, while trying to get the phone line to work. We hired a driver for a very reasonable non-negotiable price, and went to check out a couple of hotels. Within a half hour, we had found the hotel we liked the most, Omasila (1800 rupees/night, ~ $45). The owner was quick to point out that Brad Pitt had stayed in the room above ours, last year. He had the pictures and movie posters to prove it. Nawang had a beautiful place, entirely wood lodges with big beds, satellite tv and a spectacular view of the Zanskar mountain range that lights itself in the morning. Not a single hotel had running water, as all the pipes were frozen, but most had propane heaters and staff that would bring hot water on request. We were very lucky to be staffed by the very humble Rigzen, who is usually an expedition driver but works with Nawang during the off season. Rigzen brought us everything from food to water, drove us all over the valley, and ensured that we were well taken care of.

Our first couple of days completely blindsided both Tina and I. I felt like my neck was restricting itself, giving me a headache and draining every ounce of energy my muscles had. I slept most of the first two days, while Tina read and slept. On the third day, we wanted to escape our escalating cabin fever and explore the area. We mounted a japanese-built buddhist stupa, high above the village. It took Tina and I more than an hour to complete the steep hundred stair climb, as locals breezed by us. It was painfully slow, but well worth it. The view from the top was the first mind-centering wow moment I experienced in India. We happened to meet a photography professor who became a good friend as we talked on the slow descent to lower paradise. Exhausted from the exercise, we slept well that night, especially after removing the leaky propane heater that was poisoning us while we slept.

Top: Adam, on our climb to the Japanese Gompa.
Middle: Tina, above the village of Leh, beside the Japanese Gompa
Bottom: Middle aged men chilling on the street side. Leh, India.

We spent the next two days exploring and enjoying the village life in Leh. We made an exhaustive, but memorable climb to the highest gompa in the Leh valley. We haggled with the merchants in the market, and got denied every time (turns out they’re honest in Leh and do not charge a foreigner’s price). We ate traditional Ladakhi and Tibetan meals in the most popular restaurant in town. We consumed bags full of prized Ladakh dried apricots like they we our only source of digestive nutrients.

On our fifth day in Ladakh, we witnessed firsthand what compassion means to the Tibetan people. To give some background, during our stay in Leh, there had been an uprising in Tibet. The Tibetan people were rioting against Chinese control by vandalizing Chinese businesses. The Chinese were fighting back by sending the army in to calm to situation. There were many reports of citizen and monks being killed and injured in three of Tibet’s major cities. Although we were safe in India, we were physically quite close to the Tibetan border, and many of the local people were Tibetan immigrants or descendants. As a display of spirit and compassion, the town of Leh organized an evening parade through the streets leading to the gompa in the center of town. All the townspeople carried a single candle, most with homemade wind shelters, as they marched chanting Tibetan prayers. As we felt the songs of prayers, tears came to our eyes. Upon reaching the overcrowded gompa courtyard, the town huddled together for warmth and the lamas offered prayers, then united them in song. An unforgettably heartwarming experience.

On our second last day in Ladakh, we hired Rigzen to drive us out to Lamayuru and Rizong monasteries. Lamayuru in about two hundred kilometers from town on the most nerve-popping, ball-busting, don’t-look-down-or-straight-ahead drive I’ve ever been on. Blasting down the one-lane mountain-snaking road through the Ladakhi plateau, Rigzen played the steering wheel and stick of his Mahindra SUV like a world famous cellist. Once I was able to relax and trust the traction of the car and reaction speed of the driver, I got rewarded with the most spectacular views I have ever witnessed. Mountains that touch the sky, and endless deep canyons filled every view. And, there was not a single sign of life in sight for miles and miles.

Top: Tibetan parade praying for Tibetans in China after Chinese lock down.
Middle: Overlooking Lamayuru’s gompa on ledge to stupa.
Bottom: Lamayuru Monastery from a distance along the highway.

Lamayuru is a special place. Set high atop a mountain and surrounded by peaks, the iconic monastery is peaceful and soul warming. I witnessed my first Tibetan Buddhist monk reciting scriptures with a gong-like drum, and was instantly mesmerized. I wanted to just sit for hours and chant with him. After exploring all the stairs, mud passageways and locked doors, we shuffled up a rock ledge to the stupa overlooking the gompa. Peering down kilometers in the gorge and out over snow-capped peaks disappearing into fleeting clouds, I felt my true physical insignificance on earth. Really puts your life into perspective, and makes you introspective.

We spun back down the mountains and recovered from our dizzying spell in a canyon facing a white-walled, red-roofed Rizong monastery that stood up like a wall in front of us. The feature of is its school where 50 young monks and nuns are given a western education to offset their buddhist studies. As we slid up the hill, Tina pointed to small heads peering out over the roofs and balconies examining the foreigners invading their peaceful fortress. Once we reached the main level, we were graciously welcomed by an older monk who was having trouble speaking through his missing teeth. Before long, the curious younger monks came to see who their friend, Rigzen, had brought this time. We later found out that Rigzen was born and raised in the small village where we entered the canyon, and as a driver, had become a local celebrity.

We followed them up the narrow rock-cut stairs as they showed off their colorful prayer rooms, filled with old world charm. Without question, we left them a donation of a few hundred rupees in a donation box that had clearly never been emptied.

Top: A smiling Lama at Rizong Monastery.
Middle 1: Small monks greeting us at Rizong Monastery.
Middle 2: We were welcomed with both sweet milk tea and Tibetan butter tea.
Bottom: Monks on the patio taking a tea break during their scripture studies.

We were then led to the main patio where all the monks in the monastery were memorizing scriptures out loud, while partaking in milk and yak-butter tea with plain flatbread. Without anything to chant myself, Tina and I sat and soaked in the zen-like atmosphere while we were so graciously served by our maroon-clad hosts. I knew I was blessed to experience such an amazingly warm gathering in the middle of such secluded mountainous landscape. I took off one of my jackets. Tina took pictures of the monks and was then surrounded in a sea of maroon capes when she showed their smiling faces. We spoke with the director of the gompa and offered to return as volunteer teachers.

On the drive back to the hotel, I felt that the last couple of days had been worth all the trials and tribulations of our India trip up until now. Little did I know what was coming the next morning.

After a very nourishing breakfast of corn flakes and boiled eggs, Rigzen brought us to the grand Thikse gompa, just thirty minutes south of Leh. When we arrived, we were surprised to find the paths between the mud-brick buildings almost devoid of life. We had been promised that the busiest gompa in the winter months was Thikse, and we were sure to meet quite a contingent of monks. We wandered around for an hour before hearing a Tibetan horn echoing from the main courtyard. We rushed to look, and found a parade of colorful dresses flowing down the concrete path towards the main entrance. The horns and drums were loaded into the back of a truck while they continued their symphony. We begged Rigzen to follow them down into town, where they unloaded into a stone-walled courtyard encompassing a common building with traditional Ladakhi temple doors.

Top: Thikse Monastery set along the sides of a mountain 15Km south of Leh.
Middle: Adam at Thikse Monastery.
Bottom: The backs of village women near Thikse.

We followed the crowd shyly and tried our best to fit in, but we stuck out like a sore thumb. Everyone took a double look at us, as we tried to blend in by sitting in a corner on a tree log. Sighs of relief puffed out of us, as we saw some smiling faces greeting us from a distance. One of the organizing women invited us into their outdoor exhibition hall, where all the ladies of the village were sitting and enjoying tea and thukpa (Tibetan noodle soup). We started a conversation with three girls who looked around our age, and found out that this was the opening of the women’s center and temple. They promised that tomorrow would be a fantastic festival of song and dance that villagers from near and far come to partake in. Tina snapped the shutters of her camera in front of everyone in the hall, while they passed hats and flowers, and begged her to take more.

Top: Girls at the village opening ceremony. Tina knew how to make them laugh.
Middle: Adam being served thukpa.
Bottom: Faces of local women. They took turns getting photos taken by Tina.

We wished we could stay longer, but had planned for this day to be our last in Ladakh, and our plane ticket was already set. When we got back to town, we did some internet searching and made some phone calls, but weren’t able to change tickets until we got to the airport the next morning. After some fast talking and three thousand rupees (~$75), we changed our flights for an extra day of culture assimilation in Leh. We did make it to the ceremony and it really was fantastic, but the sights and sounds are best described in Tina’s descriptive photographs and my short videos.

We left a day later than planned, but I knew on the plane that I was losing much more than time.

Top: The girls in traditional costumes for special occasions.
Middle: Good laughs as the girls dressed Adam in Mongolian gowns.
Bottom: Tina dressed in traditional Ladakhie costume at the ceremony.