Travelling and Extension

Dear all,

For five weeks now I had been in tortoise mode - living only with what I could carry on my back. Nearly every night I was in a different bed, with a slightly different noisy air conditioner, sleeping companions on rotation, a variety of hopes and aspirations for the next day and consistently excellent food.

At first it was difficult. My companion annoyed me, or the noise from the aircon kept me up, or I'd spent the day with people I wasn't fond of. In my haphazard movements and absent minded wanderings I'd forget to pack things and leave things behind - to date a phone, two hats, a pair of sleeping shorts and a Danish sweater, of which one hat and a phone have found their way back to me. Sometimes I'd miss my friends, my ex-wife, just one beer after work.

But then I realised a month had passed, and England had receded far into my mental horizon, with the exception of those people and pasts poignant and pointed enough to push themselves in my present thoughts. I was a man with "single-serving friends", to use the phrase from Fight Club repeated by one traveller, a phrase that immediately presented itself as apt. I was "seeing the world", and like the view from a window of a fast train, nothing remained long enough to become familiar, accepted or dull. The impressions I received on a daily basis were unpredictable, bewildering and exciting in their variety, and slightly addictive, especially when mixed with the many stories of unvisited countries passed on by the many fortunates who seemed to have spent the past few years seeing the distant and alien - Bhutan, Chile, Burma, Mongolia, Georgia. With my possessions in storage, no job, and no partner, everything seemed possible. To qualify that slightly, travelling in any country I chose seemed possible. Very little else could be guaranteed.

Tortoise mode was easy. Just as easy as doing a day's work, cooking a meal, watching TV on my 42" TV then going to bed to sleep on a comfortable mattress in a room of a suitable temperature. It was even much simpler than such a life. I didn't need to go home. There was no deadline for return I had to meet. My affairs had been dissolved yet everything that mattered most would still be there when I returned. I wasn't home sick, besides occasional longing for a cup of coffee and a chat with an old friend. All I needed to do is continue paying my storage bill, £110 a month.

I had read and talked about the Mumbai to Chennai leg on the truck in China. Cleverly and helpfully trucks have a brochure in the bookshelf and its possible to book further overland trips whilst you are on your current one. It's especially easy to simply not leave a truck and to cancel a flight from Mumbai to Heathrow.

Mumbai to Chennai would consist of more India, a country I had only just begun getting to know but which I felt confident would be a source of endless fascination to me - especially their religions and their relation to it. I knew the itinerary would include many beaches, the kind of tropical beach and tropical repose I tried and failed to find with my wife in Malaysia the previous year. Weighing it all up there were many reasons to continue travelling and no reason to stop.

I had one reservation - the random selection of twelve people on my next truck. If I didn't like them or get on well with any of them, as I had with a more than sufficient number of people on my last truck, then I would have to make do for five and a half weeks. I decided to take the risk.

Stephen

Six days in Delhi

Dear all,

Having discussed possible itineraries at length with Shalini I worked out what was possibly and hopefully the most rewarding way for me to spend six days in Delhi. I would visit the Chandri Chowk because it is lively with a variety of goods on sale (though I'd seen this before), the big mosque (Jamar Masjid), the Red Fort, a tall Islamic tower called Qutab Minar (because its a world heritage site, not because I'm particularly fond of tall towers), an organized tour of an attempt at a capital of India (number five of seven), the biggest and most ornate Hindu temple in India and probably the world, and a day trip to Agra where the Taj Mahal may be found.

First was Chandri Chowk, a continuation of my trial by fire of India. It was a hot, busy place, with crowds of touts, rickshaws, auto rickshaws, beggars, and people having a nap on ledges and traffic islands. I didn't know where I was going so I wandered at random for a while, discovered that most of the stalls were still closed so I observed people fetching water, washing, shaving and having breakfast instead. There were many dead ends and locals watching me with amusement but there was nothing new there, it even happens in England sometimes.

When I became tired of wandering I hailed a rickshaw to take me the Mosque. I tried to become accustomed to the constant beeping. If you listen for long enough it becomes tuneful.

Fortunately it was not prayer time. I hadn't realised yet that nobody else was wearing shorts so on entering the Mosque I had the opportunity to pay 10 rupees to rent a longee (essentially a sheet wrapped round your legs) in addition to the 10 rupees for a guy to keep my sandals and 300 rupees for the entry ticket itself (there was a 3 written over the 2).

Inside there was white matting along key routes to allow visitors to walk without burning their feet, many more people having a nap, children sitting on rubble and more Indians - young men as usual - wanting a photo of me. Here they are:

The Mosque itself was a large open space with an anticlimactic prayer hall, a large open covered space. That hall was beautiful from the outside however. When I told an Indian guy later than I had visited the Mosque, he said, "Why? Are you Muslim?". Tourism can be unintuitive sometimes.

Inside a Muslim man beckoned for me to sit down next to him. He began by asking where I'm from and what I do. It turned out we were both C# software engineers but unfortunately we didn't dwell on that subject for long as he changed tack and tried to convince me of the existence of God by means of the watch / watchmaker argument. I objected that it is erroneous to explain the existence of a complex thing by positing the existence of a more complex thing but he didn't take up my objection and instead asked for my email address, promising to do further argumentative work to convince me of the truth of Islam via email. He hasn't contacted me yet but he did provide some leaflets that promise that Islam may answer all my emotional, political and spiritual needs in this life.

While walking Chandri Chowk, practising ignoring all the shopkeepers and rickshaw drivers calling out "Hello friend!" (it is more difficult to ignore a tout who is speaking English) I was occasionally hearing drumming and loud bangs. I saw a mass of people followed by a cow hauling a cart moving down the other side of the street so I crossed to the intersection to watch. Here I was accosted with some enthusiasm. Many young men shook my hand and some pressed pieces of banana, a lime and a bag of water into it. I began to closely inspect the bag of water (it said something about "reverse osmosis" on it) but the men began to yell "drink, drink!" so I drank. One young woman took her friend's arm and encouraged her to shake my hand. She remains the only female stranger to shake my hand thus far. I tried to shake the hand of the young lady who was so keen on others handshaking but she would not.

The cow kept on stopping because it was scared of the firecrackers being launched ahead of it. The lady in the blue sari wasn't keen on it either. Many were making music and dancing - I was given a pair of cymbals and ushered to the centre of the crowd. Here I found another bewildered white man; I danced and banged with him and everybody else. But I was only just getting into it when they took back my cymbals, shook my hand many times again and waved me off. Perhaps a white man is only good luck for a short time, perhaps I banged out of time, or perhaps they wanted to return a proper religiosity to their festival, undiluted by unbelievers.

Cathy, the retired lady from Australia from the truck had lived in Delhi for a while. There she made friends with Sureka, an Indian lady of similar age. This lady also happened to be my host's niece. Both independently suggested I get in touch with Sureka to take one of her tours. Given this input I decided I had better do so.

I met up with the group at 7pm in front of a metro station. I saw three white people waiting and chatting, concluded they were the group and introduced myself. They were middle aged ladies from Australia and The Netherlands and were pleased to make my acquaintance. Two pretty young women from the UK turned up. I tried to strike up a conversation with them but that was more difficult. The final group was quite a crowd, fourteen or so people.

Sureka took us on rickshaws to a shady spot, pointed out a ruined gate and began telling us about the  founding of the fifth city of Delhi, Feroz Shah Kolta. Delhi as a city was founded and destroyed seven times as the fortunes of different empires rose and fell, leaving, like Rome, the residue of previous civilisations scattered beneath the city, occasionally not demolished by future development.

While she talked a crowd of curious Indians gathered to watch the white people. Some of them were quite close to us. Sureka shouted at them in Hindi and warned us to keep an eye out for pickpockets and gropers. Looking around me I couldn't tell who were simply curious and who had more nefarious aims in mind but they all needed shooing regardless.

As we walked I exchanged the basic background details (origin, length of trip, occupation) with my fellow group members but most seemed uninterested, with the exception the aforementioned ladies and a lone Indian man working in IT. These were not truckmates, these were couples and families looking for an engaging history lesson only and had little desire to make new acquaintances.

We headed towards a ruined mosque. Despite its state, this place was still very much in active use. It was dusk and there were scattered crowds of Muslim men, women and children sitting on the grass round fires, some gathered round shrines inset into crumbling rock. Kites (birds of prey) swooped overhead, dominating the skies with their presence. I struggled to make out the faces of those nearby, but I knew that some were part of the group, some were curious onlookers following us, and others were passing by.

Sureka enlisted the services of two security guards. Their role was to unlock doors for us and keep locals away. All nearby onlookers were distrusted and kept out our way. As the light grew dimmer we lit torches and ventured deeper into the ruins. Many ancient rooms held one or two worshippers, supplicants, burning incense, making offerings, attempting to appease the Dijjins, potentially malevolent spirits with the power to bring good luck or misfortune.

We had children with us and some were a little scared. Unfortunately the torches we had were insufficient for this darkness. The Australian lady entrusted me with hers because I am taller and asked me to light people's way in order that they not trip on the uneven rocks and steps. As we ascended to the roof Sureka talked about an iron pillar and I approached the edge to balance my camera on the rocks to take a long exposure of the crowds on the grass below that were now shrouded in darkness. However I was called away lest I fall. After the liberating attitude of Dragoman leaders to personal autonomy and exploration I was unused to such babysitting.

The darkness was now such that we could not continue the tour and so we headed towards our final destination, a place of great personal interest to me. We were to visit the Parsi community in Delhi, the dwindling adherents of a once widespread religion, Zoroastrianism. This religion was the first to come up with the concept of hell and influenced early Christianity. Yet neither history nor their priests were kind to them - in addition to not being taken on as a State religion by any successful empire and being overshadowed by the spread of Islam the religion had banned adherents from marrying outside the group. As a result there are only seven hundred and fifty Parsis in Delhi and a few thousand in Bombay. These are among the largest Parsi communities in the world.

Not being pure Parsi we were not permitted to enter the temple of fire, we instead made do with entrance to their guesthouse. It still felt somewhat like an alien space but unfortunately the priest talked more about his wildlife photography projects than the religion. I also learnt much about Parsi food from the cook. The dhal was made with Parsi Marsala, a rare and complex spice mix whose recipe is known only to Parsi. I sampled the dhal with great anticipation but was not stupefied by the flavours - a diner from England commented that it tasted like our yellow and bland "curry powder" - I begrudgingly admitted that they were right. Another reminder that the rare and exotic is not necessarily superior.

During our meal I conversed some with those I was sitting with. Without exception they were fortunate, well off expats, two working for embassies (American and Dutch) and another working for the British Government Department for International Development, recently moved from a posting in Brazil. His well spoken children were born in Brazil and had spent little time in Britain but were indisputably British. All three were somewhat reticent in conversation, being more intent on finishing their meals and going home. When I told them I recently crossed China I saw some surprise and raised eyebrows, one asking whether I hitchhiked or took public transport. I assured them in my own words that it was far more civilised than that.

I was working on a second helping and dessert when I noticed that all had departed apart from the British civil servant and his children. Sureka understood he had a car at his disposal and that I did not and promptly offered his services in giving me a lift to the nearest metro station. He was too polite and I was too curious to refuse this offer.

I tried to make polite conversation while sitting with his chauffeur in the front seat (he wanted to sit in the back with his children). He seemed impressed when I told him I worked as an IT contractor but I think I lost my good standing when I quizzed him more about his life than was appropriate for the situation. I felt relieved when we finally arrived at the metro station.

The next day, on September 20th, I visited the largest and most ornate Hindu temple in India, Akshardam temple. This was a strange place. It was free to enter, but not only were photos prohibited, but no electronic devices of any sort were permitted and neither were bags. Each person went in stripped off all their data collecting capacity besides their senses and memory. This was not accidental; some religions and governments fear the exposure of recorded words and images. Personally I was able to take one photo from outside the gates.

This temple is sold as a tourist attraction and a Hindu place of worship but it was not. It was dedicated to extolling the greatness of a man and his spiritual forebears, all reincarnations of the spirit of the divine founder of the religion (an abstinent holy man whose Hindi name sounds like "nil c*nt"). It borrowed much from other Hindu faiths but this connection was accidental rather than integral.

Their founder was deified and as a result all his successors were also considered divine. Claiming divine descent is a risky strategy but if successful can bring much influence and / or riches. 

The temple itself was stunning, massive and beautiful. It was built only of white marble and every inch was intricately carved and perfectly clean - a rarity in India. However its beauty was marred by pictures of the holy founder and his successor scattered in every corner. The interior showed many painting of him at every stage of his spiritual journey, performing good deeds and miracles, and on reaching the centre, the most holy place, the visiting Hindus were confused to find not a familiar idol of Ganesh, Shiva, Laksmi or Buddha but a statue of an unfamiliar man seated in the pose of Buddha. I watched them for a while - most paused, then touched their forehead to the floor and prayed. They are Hindu, and this was a Hindu temple, so why should they not?

There was an IMAX cinema attached to the temple. This showed a film depicting the life of Nil, a boy who at twelve gave up all worldly ties and left his family in the middle of the night to wander India alone and become enlightened. There was also an "ride", a series of rooms of animatronics, short films and a boat ride extolling the virtues of the religion. By the end of the day I was tired and offended at having been subjected to such a barrage of propoganda and had concluded that one should never trust a place of worship that has its own IMAX cinema. It was a misspent day but I had had worse. I was not disspirited - the next day I was to take a day trip on the train to Agra and the Taj Mahal.

Stephen

First Day in Delhi

Dear all,

I arrived at New Delhi airport at around 3:30am on 17th September 2013. Entry to the country was swift - the queue for immigration of foreigners was empty.

The first thing I noticed about India (because in the end all airports look roughly the same) was that all the vehicles had helpful driving instructions written on their rears. They read "Blow horn", "keep distance" and "use dippers" (also "dipers", "dipppers" and a few other variations). These were sometimes accompanied by "Namaste", decorations and colourful pictures, often the Elephant God Ganesh. The advice went unheeded everywhere.

The driver of my prepaid taxi (you pay the guy at a booth and he gives you a slip good for one journey to your required destination) was a young man who didn't speak much English and didn't know where the Civil Lines suburb of New Delhi was. He called up the B&B to which I was headed several times to better his understanding of the streets. Eventually we arrived at a dark, shut doorway. A man appeared and offered to take my backpack. I didn't know who he was so I kept it. Another man appeared, more smartly dressed this time. I followed both of them inside. The second man yelled up at a room, a door was unlocked, and I was led to my marble bedroom. I was shown the air conditioner controls and given the wifi password (he was certainly familiar with the priorities of travellers) and left in peace.

The next morning, over an expansive breakfast at 10, I met the lady whom my taxi driver had disturbed and worried so many times. Not sure of the proper etiquette in India, I stood up when she introduced herself. She was Shalini Sham Nath, of Sham Nath Villa, of Sham Nath Marg (road), of Civil Lines District, the area of Delhi where the British Military Officers resided when they were in power in India. After independence Shalini's husband's grandfather helped write the new Constitution, and Shalini's husband's father was the Mayor of Delhi. It appeared that the transfer of power from Upper Class British to Upper Class Indian had been fairly seamless, the majority of Indians remaining fairly non-plussed at their change of masters.

I was also introduced to Seema. To her surprise and amusement I stood up again when she was introduced as I took her to be Shalini's daughter (she was her housekeeper). I wasn't quite sure how to behave in this house, especially towards the countless servants (countless because I was unable to count them) who would mop the marble floors while squatting, guard the door and gatehouse, fetch pens and such like for Shalini, and occasionally even drive guests places.

For breakfast that morning, and every other morning during my stay, I had coffee, juice, fresh papaya, a banana, stuffed Parantha, chapatis, pilau, some mango pickle, muesli, and toast with Marmalade from Bhutan. I often didn't manage to consume it all to the best of my satisfaction but always gave it my best effort.

After my late breakfast I arranged for dinner that evening then planned an easy first introduction to India. I had been warned by many of the heat, the crowds, the traffic, the bad hygiene and general intolerable so-called "assault on the senses". To the best of my knowledge my senses had never yet been assaulted (one at a time previously, but never all at once) so I was curious to find out what this would be like. However my (somewhat) cautious nature led me to take Seema's advice and restrict myself to a short stroll around the local neighbourhood for now.

I left Sham Nath villa. It wasn't so bad. The traffic was no busier or more chaotic than parts of China, the heat was tiring but tolerable, and nobody was trying to pickpocket, scam or poison me yet. I wandered, not the object of too much attention, waving to students and children more than adults as is my wont, all in all feeling reasonably at ease. I headed down some side lanes, admiring the trees, the school uniforms, the coal fired cast iron chapati and dhal stands.

Before long I felt I had exhausted the possibilities of my immediate vicinity so I headed to the metro. To my pleasure, on the steps of the metro I found boys sitting playing chess. To the best of my recollection I have never seen this in the UK. True, it's colder, but it's still unfortunate.

I employed the same strategy as in Beijing - I would find the centre as soon as possible. On my inadequate-but-still-better-than-Chinese tourist map "Central Secretariat" looked good. There was Government buildings nearby and also a long stretch of green.

Navigation was easy because everything was in English. After my bag had been scanned and body checked, on the metro itself I was the object of some stares, as in Beijing, but they quickly lost interest.  I emerged onto a busy highway, in sight of some snack stands and a stretch of gardens.

I wanted to buy water but was as yet unaware of the appropriate price for water. If they wanted to rip me off they would get away with it. Granted, this had also been an issue throughout China and I hadn't let it stop me getting ripped off then but I had felt more relaxed and careless there, when I existed within a jovial group.

I headed east through the gardens towards "India Gate". Like the locals, I didn't use gates or paths but simply stepped over hedges and fences where it suited me. I was developing a new rule - "what they do, I can do". It was a surprisingly liberating philosophy as in general Indians appeared to be fairly free and easy with their manners, eating and sleeping habits and approach to getting from A to B. I've never been fond of eating tidily or waiting for the green man so this would suit me fine.

The gardens were hot but shady. There was a varied mix of people on the grass. There were some families, some couples, some people who appeared to live under a tree, a few dusty old women sleeping beside a pick axe or a broom and a few little boys and girls scurrying round with bags of flowers, poppadoms or soft drinks. A boy with soft drinks approached me. First I ignored him but he pulled my arm. He offered me a bottle of coke for 100 rupees. I gave my standard response to the first  price offered - "No no no, too much, too much". He replied,  "80! 60! Ok 30!". I still wasn't interested. Then he held the bottle against my arm. Unexpectedly, it was cold. I was sold.

After what seemed like quite an extended hot walk, alleviated by coke-a-like, I reached India Gate. This was a large stone arch. I'd seen them before but this was in Delhi. I observed the tourists, all Indian except for four white tourists. I smiled at them, like I smile at anyone I feel some affinity with for assorted arbitrary reasons, but they didn't smile back.

I was messing around with exposure settings that day, following some technical advice from Mika, the guy travelling with three cameras, hence the over dark tone of the shot.

I decided to walk to Connaught Place, another centre. I stopped for lunch at a street food stall in a quiet spot and ate crunched up Samosa with dhal and sauce. It cost 10 rupees - 10p. It was hot, spicy and delicious. I ate it at the side of the road with my fingers and a wooden stick and watched a too skinny guy wearing the remnants of ankle and wrist shackles get shooed away by a vendor from the spot where he had chosen to squat. He moved a few feet away from the stall in question and squatted by another tree.

I was tired of walking so I decided to try a tuk tuk - another first experiment best undertaken early. "Connaught Place?". "80!". "Too much, too much! 30!". "40!". I assent and get in. He drives for roughly two minutes and stops. I paid 20 or 30 rupees / pence more than I should have but this was an acceptable loss.

At Connaught Place I note approvingly that there is a western looking cafe then a young man in a Manchester United shirt introduces himself to me. He is pleased to meet me, he says, and is looking to practice his English. I ask him how long he has been learning and he tells me one year. It strikes me that he is surprisingly fluent for only one year's study but I let it pass.

I tell him this is my first time in Delhi. He helpfully mentions that there is a tourist information office nearby and offers to take me to it. I conclude that since I have no other plans I may as well, I can ask many questions about the city.

At the office say thank you and goodbye to the young man and go inside. I am offered a chair and fresh lime soda. A little suspicious by now, I ask whether this is free and am assured that it is, though this is unsettlingly accompanied by a sly half smile.

A tipsy Korean girl appears and offers me the agent and I some of her vodka. We accept. My tourist information agent on hearing that I am here for six days, tells me that there is not much to see in Delhi, that I can see it all in two days, that instead I ought to take a a three day trip to a sacred town in the foothills of the Himalayas to do "spiritual stuff". He jots down some train times and other notes. The Korean girl suggests we go to a bar later then disappears. Finishing up my vodka and lime soda I tell the agent I'll think about it and ask if I can take the notes away with me. He refuses.

Outside I find the Man U shirt wearing young man skulking and looking despondent and anxious. I realise his game now. He's seeking commission kickbacks for sales of expensive trips to tourists. I think he realises its a long shot but expensive trips like that may be worth some skulking for him. On ascertaining I haven't bought anything he asks in a dejected tone whether I would like to go to a shop that he knows. I feel sorry for him.

It is now approaching 4pm. I feel that I have engaged in sufficient exploration and tiring activity for one day so I head home, that is, I head to my comfortable air conditioned room where my backpack and iPad reside. On my return I meet Shalini. She asks about my day, seems impressed by the ground I have covered and tells me that dinner is at 8, that I am invited to join herself and her husband for dinner in her home, that the other guests will also be joining us. I am surprised and pleased at this inclusiveness and welcome. When I spent several hours choosing this B&B two months ago I looked for a large number of bedrooms as well as a high TripAdvisor rating, figuring that this would increase my chances of dining and making friends with other guests during my stay. This time I had correctly predicted my future preferences. I was prepared for a week exploring and eating alone, and also looking forward to the quietness, the break from the need to go along with the activities and chat of others, but the evenings were a different matter, the truck had given me a taste for beers drunk slowly with good food and sporadic insights into other lives.

Shalini volunteers to send a Chai up to my room for me while I am relaxing and awaiting dinner. I go up and it arrives around 5pm. During the week this becomes a regular routine, though I am not asked. Instead, the gatekeeper or other persons unknown keep tabs of when I have returned from my daily rambling and it always arrives while I am lying on my bed, making plans online. It is a good routine.

I look at my stained shorts and decide to change into trousers. At 7:55pm I go downstairs and sit for a while. Another guest appears and we chat. A servant appears and beckons to us both. We cross the courtyard and enter another house. It is very similarly furnished to the guesthouse though the furniture is perhaps more ornate, and there are more hangings and paintings on the walls. We are greeted by Shalini, now beautifully dressed in a gold trimmed Sari, and I am introduced to her husband Arun. I feel glad I changed out of my shorts, Again I try to remember British manners and wait until she has sat before I sit down.

There are four other guests, two men and two women, some of whom are surprised to be eating in Shalini's home tonight instead of the usual table used for breakfast. Shalini explains that she likes to have company once in a while, and besides this was the best opportunity for her to introduce them to me. I gather that all four of them have been staying for some weeks. There is a Sociologist from Turkey (the man I came in with), a German Anthropologist working at the University of Frankfurt, a Romanian Anthropologist working at Oxford, and a German fashion development director who works for Zara and liaises with Indian suppliers. I wrongly assume that the two Germans are a couple but it doesn't matter since I don't say anything that relies upon this assumption.

Shalini takes charge of the conversation and directs questions to each of us in turn, keeping it moving between different subjects, never letting it get bogged down in subjects of marginal interest. When I am asked about my travels I keep it concise though fall over once again on the confusion generated by calling it a truck. I really should just refer to it as a bus to save misunderstanding but it's really not true.

I try my best to sum up my impression of the people, government and current developments that I observed in China, wanting to communicate something that they may not already be aware of. I don't wish to make any vacuous, sweeping statements like "China is quickly becoming very developed" to a group of academics. I'm not sure I succeed but I do pass on my slight disappointment at finding cities of millions in the middle of the desert where I had hoped for backwater market towns. They are impressed by my travels though the man from Turkey wonders why I would engage in such a journey. We talk further and I mention my background in Philosophy, whereupon he says, "Aha! It's because you're a Philosopher! I'm a Philosopher too!". He turns out to be an expert in Hume.

During the conversation snacks are handed round by Shalini's servants, consisting of tasty Indian food and chicken nuggets. Neither Shalini nor Arun eat meat but they included the nuggets as they understand their guests sometimes like to.

We help ourselves to a variety of vegetarian curries and dhals, biryani and chapatis. Despite going back for seconds I don't escape Shalini's exhortations to please have more. I have my dessert and the dessert of the Romanian lady who doesn't like sweet things. We drink beer from glasses and we understand that it is time to retire when they cease being refilled.

Stephen

Interlude

Dear all,

♫ And here I go again on my own

Goin' down the only road I've ever known [not strictly true]

Like a drifter I was born to walk alone

An' I've made up my mind, I ain't wasting no more time

But here I go again, here I go again,

Here I go again, here I go ♫

Ahem.

Mike and I waved off Claire, Matt, Dan, Lucy, Martin, Jenny, Emma, Amy, Mika, Cathy, Helena and the newbies this morning. They're leaving Bishkek to carry on to Tashkent, Ashgabat, Baku, Tbilisi and Istanbul. Mike is heading home to San Francisco tomorrow (over twenty five hours via Moscow and New York) whilst I will be flying to Delhi via Tashkent this evening. I'm currently sitting on the sofa in Mike and Tim's Yurt (formerly Cathy's) listening to the birds in the garden and watching the welcome sunlight through the open door.

I miss them already. I've made friends on this truck, not just Facebook friends. I'm still marvelling at the immense capability and personal strength it takes Claire and Matt to bring a truck through countless countries, camping out or sleeping on the truck, then driving back west over eighty days with twenty four assorted travellers of varying temperaments and naiveties. There's no time off, no sick days, no plan B. There was no situation they couldn't handle because they have no choice. Fortunately unlike some other Dragoman journeys there were no upsets - no major breakdowns (of passengers or truck), no cancelled visits (apart from Xinjiang camping which I didn't particularly miss because I'd left my one warm sweater behind), no major illness. Everyone got along - more or less - and we were all prepared - more or less - for everything the trip threw at us.

I'm trying to do nothing now because it doesn't feel like the right time to be a tourist. I will get some lunch and leave it at that. My taxi to the airport will pick me up at 4pm. On arrival at Delhi I will make my own way to my B&B at 3am in the morning, collapse then slowly try to get my bearings amid the crowds and 36 degree heat.

Stephen

Exiting China and Tash Rabat

Dear all,

After leaving Kashgar, the westmost city of China, we headed north to the nearby Chinese border post. We were headed for Torugat pass beyond where Kygyzstan began but between the Chinese border post and that line there was a hundred miles of No Man's Land. Here there were a few farmers and abandoned villages previously occupied by people resettled to less contentious areas. The Chinese preferred to limit the movements of peoples through borderlands so that no one might slip through unheeded. Some Uighur are not keen on remaining in Xinjiang.

The first Chinese border was deserted apart from well dressed guards and a pair of Canadian touring cyclists. We passed through without issue, Matt paid his speeding fines and the guards conducted a little PR exercise, photographing themselves loading our bags onto the truck.

After the first border post there was nothing to see and no noodle truck stops so we executed a "rolling lunch" of tuna and cheese bagels (they don't call them bagels but they look like bagels). After lunch the road became steeper and bumpier, a brisk breeze came down from the barren mountain tops. We waited for the final border.

We never managed to escape China in China. I had read about the diversity of cultures and religions and we found them, but the State was ever present, a fog of insignia and uniformity created in the name of unity and Motherland. The past was preserved but it was static, not evolving - there were Buddhists and Taoists throughout China but they were tolerated, begrudgingly accepted, not encouraged. Only Islam seemed active, a force of sorts. In certain towns it could be seen and heard everywhere, in caps, headscarves, calls to prayer, teetotalism and "local time". This force was diminishing, though, and not as an accident of history - every town had its expanding "Chinese quarter", a designed resettlement of people to dilute those who did not pledge allegiance to China in their hearts (every child must in their assemblies).

This was why I longed to see no fences. Rules, property, industry, highways, plans for economic growth and prosperity all spoke to me of the expansive and hidden Government offices of Beijing. Their influence reached deep into the inhospitable expanse of the desert. As in Britain, there was no wilderness left.

I looked forward to Kyrgyzstan. I inwardly exalted when I saw the first Russian language signs at the border. They reminded me of a previous trip I'd taken to Finland, Russia and Estonia in 2004. That was the only time I've travelled alone in Europe - I married soon after. But despite the intervening nine years  my goals and aspirations in travel hadn't changed and that made me happy. When I was eighteen, I asked my Dad and his university friend Dennis whether they felt like different people to how they felt now in their middle age. They said no, they were just the same, with more experience and knowledge but in no sense different people, not transformed or wise.

It's good to be able to count on one's temperament. Even if one made mistakes before, what was good in the past will be good now and what was desired then is still desired now and remains valuable and worthwhile. For me now and then this would be Bach, solitude, the company of good friends, no fences, with grass and possibility stretching as far as the eye can see.

The Krygyz at the border were gruff and approachable, though all we did was hand them our passports. We played on the truck weigher while our new guide Sayed, a courteous, well spoken and considerate young man went through the paperwork.

On the other side the road almost disappeared and the mountains opened up into a plateau. On this side the Tian Shian mountain range there were clouds in the sky and the slopes were covered in grass. We were three thousand five hundred metres high, herds of horses and yaks roamed freely. Occasionally we would spot a yurt but otherwise there was no human settlement.

It was beautiful but it was not a place one could live. Sayed informed us that the herders would only come to the plateau in the summer. In the winter the temperature dropped to minus forty Celsius, snows covered the plains and there was nothing here for any tourist, farmer or beast. Still, it was good to see that there are still such places on Earth.

The plateau ended and we entered a valley. This would take us to our yurts and Tash Rabat.

We passed a few yurt camps as the valley and the road grew narrower. At one camp we bumped to a halt, we woke up and gazed around surveying our next home for a night. There were yurts, a house, a stream and a peculiar looking round building of rough stone. Dogs, horses and cows ambled nearby. The sun was still up but was about to dip below the ridge. We dumped our bags in our two yurts and looked about us. We were cold up here. I donned my greatest number of layers yet (tshirt, shirt, fleece, waterproof) in preparation for another high altitude night. Prepared for most eventualities, I was annoyed at myself at having let a mere lack of clothing affect my enjoyment of the trip's escapes from developed territories.

Matt and I decided to hike up a nearby peak that was not too near and not too far while there was still light in the sky. We waited for Tom, Dan and Lucy and Tim to join us. We then ascended at varying paces with two of our neighbour's dogs who seemed to enjoy our company. They galloped ahead of us, play fighting and rolling about. Personally feeling very winded by the high altitude ascent I was impressed by their speed and enthusiasm.

It was hard going but soon our truck and yurts became very small and the surrounding mountains dominated our view.

The climb was quicker than I feared it would take. We sat down with the dogs to enjoy the views.

On our return the group was standing round in a circle, arms wrapped against the cold, chatting and waiting for dinner. Amy was wearing a beautiful rabbit fur hat acquired in Kashgar of which we were all quite envious. I joined them for a little while then got bored and wandered off to follow the stream. The dogs joined me.

I forded the stream easily enough and walked up a low ridge, the dogs still playing and occasionally pausing for a scratch. I could see the circle in the middle distance and could hear snatches of laughter float up on the wind. They were watching me; someone flashed their torch at me. I concluded it was dinner time and made my way back. Unfortunately the stream was a tad wider at the point opposite the dining hut and could not be forded. Matt came out with a torch and found a spot where it was narrow enough to jump.

Inside the room was toasty from the stove and to our surprise and delight the low table was loaded with breads, pastries, soup with dill, many jams, mixed peppers, little deep fried aubergine and cheese (cheese!) slices, potato salad and sweets. Sayed informed us that Kyrgyz do not have courses or even many ways to distinguish breakfast from dinner, they just lay whatever is available out at every meal and each may eat as they like. We were pleased to be introduced to these new eating concepts.

I started by dipping fried bread in jam. We passed round and compared the flavours. The wild strawberry was excellent, but so were the raspberry, apricot and blackcurrant. Sayed suggested we put some in our tea. It worked incredibly well. Again, strawberry worked best.

We lingered after the meal, reluctant to leave the warmth and food for our yurts. However the stoves in our yurts had also been lit and I fell asleep quite comfortably between yurt bed (like a normal bed but in a yurt) and blankets, having diligently executed thorough movements in the outhouse to save unwanted interruptions to warm sleep.

As it happened I was not interrupted by my bowel but again by the cold, the stove having gone out in the small hours. I quietly unzipped my sleeping bag amidst a miniature lightning storm of static and attempted to lay it over my blanket. It worked at times when it hadn't slipped off onto the floor. My nighttime strategies still needed work.

We were all keen to come out into the sun as soon as it rose.

I began with four layers but within the hour was down to two. Sayed had volunteered to show us round Tash Rabat, the strange round building of stones, the Caravanserai. A Caravanserai is a place where traders stopped to rest and exchange goods but Sayed disagreed that this was the purpose of the building. It was built in the 15th century, he said, after Silk Road traffic had substantially diminished thanks to Mongols and ships. It was also overbuilt, with many rooms, walls like a fortress, a prison, and what appeared to be an altar in the middle of the central room. It could have been a Mosque or a Nestorian temple, but why would a place of worship have a prison? Nobody knows.

Stephen

Lake Karakol

Dear all,

On a September morning we headed south and up down the Karakorum highway. If we stayed on this road it would take us to Pakistan but that was not our trip this time (Dragoman used to do overland trips through Pakistan, Afghanistan and Iran but then came war).

The road was bumpy and occasionally obscured by landslides and scree. In these spots a track would descend off the road then come back to it a while later. The slides did not look recent. Myles said that the Chinese were planning to close this road altogether so weren't maintaining it - they were not so keen on people passing between Pakistan and China by road. It was impassable for most of the year in any case due to snow.

There were many checkpoints on this road. As we approached the first Claire asked if everyone had their passports to hand. I was the only one who did not - I had packed in a hurry that morning and stashed my money belt in my backpack that was in our luggage locker. With the help of other passengers we completed a remarkably swift manoevere in traffic whereby we jumped out, opened up the back, threw a few bags about, got mine out, practically upturned it in haste to find the precious belt, stuffed everything back in, threw the bag back in the back and jumped back in the truck and moved on amidst the beeping. Going by my past record of keeping hold of my belongings, a few of my truckmates were afraid that I may not find it and I'd be stuck in a shack at a checkpoint in the mountains with only a few shady touts and Chinese soldiers for company. I had faith that I would be okay though.

As we ascended the mountains grew steeper and we spotted crests of white on the horizon. At first they were hazy and distant, as at Heavenly lake. However unlike Heavenly lake we grew closer and closer and soon the snow was not only in the far distance but surrounded us on many towering peaks. There were glaciers too, clear to see but too steep and high to reach (or so Myles our guide told us).

We reached a lake which I initially took to be our destination but which Myles informed us was a recently created reservoir. We were up on the plateau now. The air was thin and there was a brisk breeze but the sun was still hot. We stopped to pee and gazed across the reservoir at where the dunes or scree met the mountains and water. In the winter all this would be covered in snow. Now it was hot, sand and scree, more hospitable to life and ourselves but not much.

We boarded the truck and it was not long before we reached our lake, Lake Karakol, at three thousand five hundred metres above sea level. I was pleased to note that there were no barbed wire fences here. I was half expecting to see a car park full of tour buses round the next corner but there was nothing of the sort. I saw a couple of small girls running to gape at our truck, some herders with felt hats on motorcycles, and a few yurts.

We parked close to the lake. It was shallow, the shore consisting only of scree and thin grass. The water was clear and still and we could see the shores and mountains opposite with great clarity. The breeze blew colder here - I could not imagine night.

Shortly after we arrived quite a few of us, but not myself, decided to go swimming, despite Myles warning them that it was not allowed. They changed into their swimsuits with remarkable speed but then the herders and yurt owner appeared on their motorbikes. They did not want us tourists bathing in their drinking water even if we promised not to pee in the lake. Dan reported feeling quite underdressed during this conversation.

That's Myles in the green and I'm sure you can figure out which one is Dan.

We settled on a compromise. The swimmers would go downstream of our location. That way any surreptitious peeing would flow out of the lake down the mountain stream. I'm not sure what their plan was for the yaks that were bathing.

As the swimmers gingerly immersed themselves in glacial waters I set out to walk around the lake. The sun had set too early at Heavenly lake but I had more time here and could I clearly see my path. There were no fences, no steep ascents. Only myself, a shallow shore, the mountain slopes and many reflections were all ever present.

I encountered some camels. I didn't know who they belonged to - like the yaks they were just there, wandering, grazing and farting at will. Their farts really stank. I came quite close to them. One headed directly towards me at a good pace but I moved and he continued in his chosen direction. They weren't interested in me at all.

The camels headed towards the glaciers and I continued around the lake. The going was easy though I did get a little dizzy every time I stood up after going through my bag. I was well stocked for my walk - I had Crysthanenum tea, Kvass (a Russian fermented bread drink that I unexpectedly found in Kashgar supermarkets - evidently the influence of the former Soviet stans extended that far) and truck water.

The way narrowed to a path between a cliff face and the waters. There were clouds of insects surrounding me but none of them were biting. Other than the gnat like insects the only signs of life I could see was the occasional bird and a few discarded bottles and cigarette butts.

I was about halfway around the lake and in my stride when the way widened to an expanse of grasslands on which yaks and camels were grazing. Here the path diverged from the lake shoreline and headed towards a village. I didn't want to go to the village - I wanted to walk around the lake. I decided to continue walking by the shore. I couldn't see any fences so didn't anticipate any issues with this approach.

I soon encountered a river. Naturally enough this impeded my progress around the lake shore. I decided to go for a walk along the river as the sun was still high in the sky so I wasn't in a hurry. I met many yaks but found no fords. After deliberating for a moment I took my boots and socks off, rolled my trousers up and waded across. The cool water was welcome.

I was in an expanse of marsh, a place for yaks and birds but not for people with footwear. I carried my boots with me. One boot made a handy bottleholder for my kvass and the mud underfoot was soft. There were occasional spiky sections of dry dead grass but it was worth it for the freedom to walk in whichever direction I wished.

A man on a motorcycle appeared in the distance, drove to a point of solid ground up ahead and stopped. My chosen path round the lake would take me past him. As I walked towards him with foreboding I was reminded of those times I undertook a "straight line walk" across the fields of Worcestershire, aiming to reach my friend's house covering the least distance possible (though not the least duration possible). It was the nineties, the time of foot and mouth disease and I was headed off and turned back at many natural funnels by unsympathetic and possessive farmers.

This herder addressed me in words I didn't understand and pointed towards the village. I wasn't feeling happy now and pointed towards the shore. We exchanged a few words of basic English and I realised he was only offering to give me a lift to the village for a fee. I declined with relief and went on my way.

The marsh was getting deeper and there were more rivers to wade across but at this new vantage point I found different reflections within the same lake that we had repeatedly photographed from our campsite earlier. I couldn't see the truck any more but I was confident I knew the way. It's hard to get lost when you're walking around a lake.

I spoiled the shot of many a tripod laden Chinese photographer who had lined up by the side of the highway to photograph the unspoilt mountain pastures that I was tramping through. They were fresh from their 4x4s whilst my trousers were wet and muddy from a few wading spots of deceptive depth but I didn't envy them. The sun would dry me in no time whilst they had never approached the rivers that their DSLRs were capturing in telescopic detail.

I avoided meeting their gaze and joined the highway. This was the easy way back to the truck. I was running late for the dinner that a cook group had been preparing for the past two hours and I had spotted some fences, yurts and property further along the shore. 

I arrived precisely half an hour late for the scheduled serving of dinner and exactly as they were beginning to serve dinner. We had risotto, squash and peppers and mixed Chinese mushroom salad. I was the second to last to return - Mika was still out. As the sun dipped below the horizon we scanned the glaciers and peaks for him with binoculars and eyes. I asked the girls washing vegetables in the lake whether they would mind if I took a photo of them. They didn't mind.

Mika appeared from the same direction as I after dinner. He'd begun walking around the lake but diverged to climb a peak. When he came down he couldn't find a way across the river so he walked the village. There a herder offered to give him a lift to our campsite.

Night had come and once again it was bloody freezing. We headed to our yurts where our sole source of adequate warmth - sleeping bags and blankets - resided.

After a long yet companionable night (I feel less bad about having to deal with the usual dilemma of demands of the bowel vs desire for warmth when others are going through the same) we emerged to a crisp, beautiful and bloody freezing dawn. The yaks were already up and making their way to their grazing encouraged by the ever busy daughters of the lake.

We had pancakes with nutella-like spread and cowboy coffee for breakfast. Cook group 2 had made too much batter so I ate my fill which unfortunately distracted me from doing my bit with the washing up.

We packed up and were soon driving north back up the Karakorum highway towards Kashgar and Kyrgyzstan, passports in hand.

Stephen