Top Travel Leads

With our luggage on the trolley, we pushed through the usual crowd of people and saw our best friend in Cambodia, Jean Paul, rushing to meet us. Those of you who have been reading my Cambodian e-mails since 2002, may remember he is the Frenchman who offered Donald a place to set up his ultralight when our pompous Australian minder forgot to include this in his responsibilities. Along with being a successful contractor, he is also an ultralight pilot. He refers to me as his sister and he and Donald over the years have bonded like brothers. As reported last year, he got married on Friday, had a big party on an island in the Mekong on Saturday, drove back to Phnom Penh on Sunday, visited his lawyer on Monday, and was divorced on Tuesday. You have to love a guy like that and since this country is still part “wild west”, he is the perfect friend, ebullient and just a little nuts. He has been in Cambodia since early 1990 and speaks perfect Khmer. We have no idea what he says to the local people, but they are all laughing when he gets finished. Several years ago, he was the main topic of one of my e-mails and I described the fatal flaw in our relationship: no shared language. He speaks very little English and my French vocabulary is limited to a restaurant menu. The empty spaces are bridged by an abundance of feelings and he is so demonstrative that only a few words and many hand motions are enough for us to get the general story. If the “devil is in the details”, then we have to await a translator. Jean Paul started talking, actually using English words. When I questioned him on his improved English, he said it was his Australian girl friend. My “inquiring mind” wants to know ,what girl, where is she now? Call the translator.

With our luggage stuffed in the back of Jean Paul’s Toyota 4WD, we are cruising down Russian Federation Boulevard toward the hotel when Jean Paul calls Eddie and hands the phone to Donald. “Yo Eddie, how’s it going?” Then there is silence, Donald listens to whatever Eddie is telling him. The silence stretches out too long. Then Donald says, “Let me digest this and I will call you back later”.

BEFORE YOU HEAR THE REST OF THE STORY
Let us leave Donald absorbing this news and turn to another issue: recent critiques from my readers or maybe I should just say it like it is, I have been receiving criticisms. However, I am not a sensitive person and, at best, I figure if someone criticizes then at least they have read what I had to write or then, at worse, they stopped reading because they just could not take any more. Well, as the old man once said ” it is what it is”.

ORIGINAL CRITICISM
The original criticism came from my daughter’s friend. He used several long words, which I distilled into something like: pretentious, self serving, and preposterous, which I further condensed into “hey lady, dilute the purple prose”. After all, I was receiving advice from a well-read Princeton graduate and guess what, he was right. Actually embarrassing, juvenile behavior at my age, to be prone to vocabulary flights of fantasy, attempting to stew up a pot of ethereal verbiage or trying to string adjectives along like verbosity on a string. To my defense, even though I had been traveling to Asia since 1980, travelling in Cambodia in 1992 and then coming to stay extended periods can turn a hard-core traveler into an ingénue.

Our eyes were innocent of the pain and suffering these people had endured and our souls touched by their struggle to regain their lives after the horror of the Pol Pot years. We created a bond with our village people and no matter how much they thanked us for what we gave, we silently thanked them for allowing us to feel good about ourselves. Returning was an emotional experience. The struggle for survival still goes on and the people have to deal with a government skilled in power grabs, greed, and corruption. Yet, in the passing years, life is getter better and it is harder to sustain that original level of emotion.

Therefore, this year, I take an oath to be terse. Heightened human consciousness will refine my act of observance allowing my reportage to reek of pityness, which I am not sure is even a word. I am certainly relieved that he did not attack my attempts at irony. Because as Lenin said about power, irony is just rolling around in these streets and all you have to do is pick it up.

NEXT CRITICISM
This one is recent and comes from a dear friend I see every Tuesday night….no, no I will not mention her name. An avid sports fan, a Duke graduate, and also very well read. She says the e-mails are just tooooo long. This toooo I respect and even though I have recently turned over a significant milestone in age, I am not too old to be retrained. Therefore, I succinctly state from here on out, the e-mails will be cut off with a “TO BE CONTINUED” notation at the bottom. I hope that I can leave a few dangling participles that will encourage you to stay tuned.

FINAL CRITICISM:
This comment comes from someone very dear to me, of a younger generation, but someone who has known me his entire life. He is a great father, also a Duke graduate, and I trust him, not with my life, but that which comes next. As a reader he complains that I have nothing new to say. So now I promise to write something entirely new.

AS PROMISED, WHAT IS NEW  — Back to Donald and Eddie conversation.
Eddie was driving down the road with the ultralight on his trailer when the ropes came untied and the plane tumbled out, hit the road, rolled over and broke several important parts. Eddie called the factory and they will be closed until January 11. As my mother- in- law used to say, “nothing is so bad that it cannot get worse”. Eddie continued his story. An official from APSARA, the organization that controls the archeological park, i.e. the temples of Angkor, came by the village field out of which they fly, to inform him he would have to stop flying. We know each year when we return things will be different. But this is certainly different and many questions have been left unanswered: when can Airborne of Australia send the needed parts and do you fix a plane that you cannot fly? But then since the official rode up on a motor bike and not in an official car, is there a way out of the new no fly zone? As Donald said, “Let me digest this and I will call you later”.

IN THE MEANTIME
We checked into the Le Royal Hotel, once more occupying the room named for Somerset Maugham and joined Jean Paul for lunch. He avoids Asian style restaurants but like most Frenchmen is always on the outlook for a new French restaurant. Jean Paul introduced us to the new owner-chef and his , the manager of the Deauville, a bar and restaurant favored by the French located near our hotel. Jean Paul ate a simple piece of fish and Donald and I feasted on homemade pate, fresh French bread, and wedges of French cheese, and prosciutto. It was Saturday, a mellow day in Phnom Penh, and as the late morning rays of the sun cut through the potted palms leaving splayed shadows where they lay, we sipped chilled champagne and….it is really hard to stop this kind of writing….especially because all of it is true.

TREPIDATIONS BECOME REALITY
Donald and I were to stay in Phnom Penh until the 10th when we would go to Siem Reap. Even if he could not fly in Siem Reap, we would still visit the village. Donald could patch them up and I would hand out the clothes, doing all that we had done before. Then we would come back to Phnom Penh, check into a long stay hotel, call up the friends we have made over the years, and just have a good time. Unfortunately, we received an early morning phone call, the kind you do not want to receive. I picked up the receiver, it was Patty, Donald’s sister. Immediately I asked about their mother and she said, it is not her, but Jimmy has died from a heart attack. I handed the phone to Donald. Jimmy is Donald’s older brother. Donald left Phnom Penh the morning of January 9, returning to New York for the funeral. I will travel up to Siem Reap on the 10th, met up with Eddie and together try to sort out the problems. If all goes well, Donald will return to Phnom Penh on January 22 and we will start over.

ABOUT MY E-MAILS
I am now in Siem Reap waiting for something to happen and until that does, I will send out a series of e-mails that I wrote on our recent trip to Egypt. We also went to Rwanda to see the gorillas and I hope to write about that along with our five day stopover in Taipei.

Cambodia is on hold and Egypt will unfold.

It was late evening, Sunday, October 25, when our Kenyan airways flight landed in Cairo’s International Airport. We had spent three nights in Rwanda trekking for gorillas, the Diane Fossey kind, and now we were planning to spend the next four weeks touring Egypt. A representative from the tour company was scheduled to pick us up…. we collected our luggage from the carousel and made our way to the immigration counter….

TO BE CONTINUED

ARRIVAL IN PHNOM PENH, CAMBODIA

The day Donald and I leave Cambodia is the day we plan our return. Whether we leave a small part of our ourselves behind or take a part of Cambodia with us, we spend the rest of the year anticipating our next trip. This year we were scheduled to leave on December 27. We left Knoxville on December 24th,driving to New York, loaded down with 2 ½ months of clothing and supplies as we would travel in Burma, India, and then the Philippines before coming home on March 15th. Donald spent Christmas at home with his family: his mother, older brother, two sisters, and all spouses , children ,and assorted relatives. I had a delightful time visiting my daughter. We left home at 5:00 AM and eleven hours later Donald dropped me off my daughter’s apartment, the corner of 82nd and Riverside Drive. Due to the holiday, he would spend another three hours fighting the traffic heading to Long Island but I arrived just in time to help my daughter with her annual Christmas Eve dinner.

ARE WE REALLY GOING?

Donald and I spent December hurtling unsettling issues. Even though Donald’s mother promised to remain healthy and my ninety-two year old parents promised to remain vertical, I could not dismiss the continuing sense of unease, an unarticulated premonitions, that something was going to happen and we would not be able to go. Travel day was Sunday and both of us, coming from opposite directions, made it to JFK Airport in record speed. Donald’s brother Jimmy brought him to the airport and I arrived by car service. Without the trouble of long lines, we boarded our North West Flight (operated by Delta). If all continued to go well, we would be returning for our ninth straight winter in Cambodia, marking eight years with the plane.

FIRST STOP

Instead of spending New Year’s Eve in Singapore, as we have for the past several years, we decided to spend it in Taipei, Taiwan. In my “previous life”, I had a wholesale, gift import business and traveled to Taipei two times a year to arrange for merchandise. The last time I was there was the winter of 1989. Since that time, both Taipei and I have retired from the gift business. If you want that type of merchandise, you now go to China. I was looking forward to seeing how the city had changed and had been promised a spectacular New Year’s Eve fireworks display. Twenty-two minutes of fireworks during Knoxville’s Labor Day Boomsday and spoiled us and we were definitely disappointed last year with Singapore’s seven minutes. The fireworks are set off from Building 101, the second tallest building in the world, and the tallest in Asia. We arrived on January 28, spent two nights in Taipei, one night in the countryside, returning on the 31st and leaving for Phnom Penh, Cambodia on the 2nd. ( Taipei maybe a topic for a future e-mail, especially since I am in possession of a letter I wrote to my parents when first arriving in Taiwan in 1982).

ARRIVING IN PHNOM PENH

Our Cathy Pacific Flight left Taipei at 6:00 AM and with a change of planes in Hong Kong, we were scheduled to arrive in Phnom Penh at 10:00 AM. Our wakeup call was set for 3:00 AM. This uncivilized time required a stiff offense, a couple of sleeping pills. Even though we had lights out at 8:30, January 1, there was either too little night or too much morning when a stubborn alarm clock and a hotel rousted us out of bed on January 2.

Maybe under the lingering influence, I have very little memory of our ride to the airport or much of the flight but when the plane landed in Hong Kong I, remember being met by a gate agent who guided us to our connecting flight. Apparently, the signage had not yet been completed and we would have had trouble finding out way to the new terminal. The flight to Phnom Penh continued to be a sleepy journey. I had no trouble napping, while the plane, swallowed up in grey cloud cover, experienced occasional turbulence. Just before the plane exited Vietnamese air space, Donald noted, floating in a sea of clouds, the top of Black Lady Mountain. Located close to the Cambodia-Vietnamese border in Tay Ninh Province, this area experienced heavy fighting during the Vietnam War. We often took day trips out of Saigon to visit the Cao Dai Temple located close by. We knew we were nearing our destination.

The captain came over the loudspeaker and, in a crisp Aussie accent, announced our initial descent. He reminded us to reset our watches as Cambodian was one hour behind Hong Kong tome , assured us the sun was shining and the weather, a warm 27 Celsius. It took three different languages to make sure we would all fasten our seat belts and return our tray tables to their upright position. Just hearing Khmer being spoken hastened us closer to our destination.

We descended out of the clouds and immediately rewarded with our first glimpse of the broad Cambodian plain spreading out below. Blue skies had returned and the clear morning sun was working hard, turning paddies of young rice into glittering green squares and water, standing in flooded paddies not yet planted, into silvery mirrored surfaces. The stately Cambodian coconut palm, pushing their way into the sky, punctuated the distance, hovering over uncultivated land, multiple shades of brown. Soon we saw the great Mekong River threading its way south, brown with the silt it had been carrying since departing its source in the Tibetan mountains. It had already journeyed through jungles, swamps, and forests and when crossing into Vietnam, it would splinter into many small rivers, creating the Mekong Delta.

Below, the river had contorted itself into a ninety-degree turn, signaling the riverine town in the distance was Kampong Cham and the bridge citing, the only one to cross the Mekong River. Over the years, I have written about this place. It is a quaint market town with a French colonial sector. The local people know it for the clay cookware that is produced here and sold all of Cambodia from bullock carts stacked with merchandise packed in loose straw. For the expats, it is the home of the best hamburger in Cambodia, served up by the wife of a Philadelphian expat. For Donald and Eddie, flying in the ultralight, this town, with its exceptionally long runway, at one time was their refueling stop.

Phnom Penh air space was getting closer and closer. The sound of the wheels coming down triggered a tightening sensation, a twinge in the stomach and a skipped beat of the heart. Traditional landmarks came into view. We flew near the Japanese Friendship Bridge, a gift from the Japanese government. Spanning the Tonle Sap River, it connects the city to the Chruoy Changvar peninsula. Over the bridge and an immediate right turn down the river road leads us to our favorite bar, Maxine’s, owned by the indomitable Snowy, raconteur, artist, movie star, and an exceptionally good father. A multitalented man who turned a traditional style Cambodian stilt house, hugging the banks of the river, into a magical place. In the past, I have written about this bar and last year we brought our friends, Herb and Elise, there to watch the sun set over Phnom Penh. We caught a glimpse of the Royal Palace with its traditional architecture, heavily influenced by the Thais, and could almost pick out the traffic moving down Sisowath Quay. Boeng Kak, the lake, located in the northern part of the city, with its scores of budget style hotels attracting the back packer set, no longer glittered in the early morning sun. In a controversial project to reclaim land for high profile projects, the water is being replaced with sand and seen from above has deteriorated into a murky looking swamp.

Suddenly the runway was beneath us. We touched down and as we rolled to the gate flashes of pink streaked our window from lotus planted alongside the airstrip. Exiting the plane, a blast of hot air exploded through us, a punch in the stomach, rank with humidity. Anyone who has spent time in Southeast Asia remembers immediately upon reentry the air, infused with a heady mixture of pollution, mildew, and the aroma of spices, frying garlic, and stale cooking oil. Depending on your interests, the air can also be redolent with the wild and exotic promise of cheap beer, cheap women, and cheap drugs. But for the first time, that musty mildew odor was missing. Was this a sign that the city was being cleaned up, sanitized. Only time would tell. The airport had changed its name from Ponchentong to Phnom Penh International Airport, not sure what that meant, but I was sure there would be many others changes to contemplate.

Visas are still available upon arrival and with our papers in order, our photos attached, and a crisp twenty dollar bill clipped to the appropriate form, we breezed right through the visa process. Their ill fitting uniforms had not improved but there seemed to be more organization. With more immigration officers behind the desk than before, the process had improved. The man with the most decorations and metals took our money. Noticing the many previous Cambodia visas, he smiled and said, “Welcome back”. Yes, we had made the long waited returned, and Jean Paul, our best friend in Cambodia, was waiting outside. However, that ominous feeling, which by now had become a nuisance, still hung on.

TO BE CONTINUED

AT THE CAMP SITE

At 4:30 I walked over to the house, actually a two story concrete box. An opening had been left for a window, but the glass had not yet shown up and the floor was hard packed dirt. Numgal was sitting on a jute sack surrounded by his kitchen and Dorje was checking on his donkeys. All of us would work on dinner and when Dorje returned from his donkeys, he gave me an odd look when I suggested he wash his hands before helping. Dorje cut the lamb into cubes, which I liberally sprinkled with Numgal’s panoply of spices. He had found a bent piece of wire and after hammering it relatively straight, had cut it into skewers. A small fire was burning in the attempt to turn willow branches into charcoal. All was going well and we agreed dinner would be at 6:30. While the meat was marinating, I returned to my tent to check up on Andrew Harvey’s spiritual progress, as compared to mine.

Tonight’s dinner had all the makings of a feast. Because we had so much meat left over and all of it had to be eaten that night, we invited the owner of the camp site, who brought along a friend. That afternoon two goat herders, along with their goats, had shown up, and they were invited. When I returned, Dorje had already made his chapattis and had the skewers roasting over the coals. Numgal had cranked up his pressure cooker and the dal and rice had already been prepared, along with a saute of our various vegetables. We had more lamb than skewers and Numgal had fired up the remaining meat in onions and garlic. The menu now included lamb two ways.

When I arrived at 6:30, a fire had been lit and all the men were sitting around waiting for dinner. They had prepared a special place for me and I sat on a camp stool with the vegetable crate as my table. Once again, everything Numgal prepared was delicious. Each person ate in his own way, ranging from knife and fork, to spoon, to just fingers. I do not think willow wood will replace hickory or mesquite because it left a rather unpleasant taste on the meat. But no one seemed to mind and they ate until the lamb was finished. If an anthropologist had been there, she would have been very pleased to hear the old goat herders singing around the camp fire, with the younger men chiming in. This was the night of the full moon, the Buddhist symbol for enlightened consciousness. (Buddha was born and entered Nirvana during a full moon). We never saw the moon that night because it remained completely hidden behind clouds, not a good sign.

Leaving the men around the camp fire, I returned to my tent. I had no trouble falling asleep with the sound of the rushing stream in one ear and the sounds of donkeys braying in the other. Morning came too soon. Dorje showed up with the promised bowl of hot water and the pot of tea. It is surprising how clean one can get with just a small amount of water. Later he returned with a breakfast tray loaded down with fried eggs, toast, cereal, and puris. Numgal and I left the campsite around 9:00, heading for a monastery 2 ½ hours away and on the way back we would walk through the nearby village. Not veering too far away from the stream, the path wrapped around the contours of the mountains. Once again the walking was easy until we encountered rock slides. We passed traditionally constructed houses with their ancient apricot orchards and the familiar chortens and mani walls. We lunched and rested in a willow grove. The walk up from the river bottom to the village was as demanding as the one I experienced the day before, expect this time the sun was hidden by dark grey clouds. When we returned to the camp, we had been walking 5 ½ hours.

I was doing fine and quite capable of going forward after a little rest but the main concern was the cloudy sky. June was supposed to be the dry season but by late in the afternoon it began to rain. That night we ate inside the building. The meat was finished and we enjoyed a vegetarian meal, along with a soup he reconstructed out of a soup mix. I sat on the camp stool behind the vegetable crate table and Numgal and Dorje sat on jute sacks. This time I brought the damask placemat I had “borrowed” from Jet Airways. Candles were lit and it was quite cozy.

The sound of the rain beating on the tent lulled me to sleep but the night was not for sound sleeping. I woke up at 4:00AM, either because I was burning up in my sleeping bag as its tight contours would not allow me to turn over or because it was necessary to stop the absurd dream playing on my mental DVD player. I had been dreaming that the rain had caused a flash flood and I was locked inside my tent, hurdling down the turbulent waters. I woke up just before I was deposited into the Indus River. Had I known at the time this tent had holes, I would have saved myself all this trauma. At 5:00 AM I awoke to the call of two magpies discussing a few things in the willow trees close to my tent. I had seen them often and they are the size of pigeons with a white chest and white tipped blue black wings. By 7:30 when Dorje appeared with the hot water and the pot of tea, the rain was reduced to a drizzle. They packed up the camp site and dressed in rain gear, we set off. We had one more pass to cross and this one measured in at 11,500 feet.

WALKING IN THE RAIN

The incline toward the pass was gentle and soon the rocky path turned into soft grass, enjoyed by everyone, including the donkeys. Mountain roses lined a dry river bed and even in the misty morning their deep pink color was impressive. But like most things beautiful, there was danger as their blossoms were protected by giant thorns. We reached the summit in forty minutes and once again I placed a stone on the mani wall. The weather was not progressing well. The higher we climbed, the heavier the rain and the stronger the wind. I was wearing a rain jacket and rain pants and protected from the rain outside. But inside I had made the mistake of layering my clothes over my thermal underwear. The further I walked, the hotter I became and soon there was a raging sauna inside my rain outfit. It was raining too hard to take off any clothing. Below us stretched another oasis, its organic form expanding out to the base of the surrounding mountains. The descent was easy and in an hour we had arrived at our next camp site. At this lower level, the rain had turned into drizzle and the mist had closed in on the valley, reducing our view almost to the hand in front of our faces. The camp site was already filled with tents. There was a main house and a guest house, similar to the one I had slept in several nights before. Numgal commandeered a block house and set up his kitchen and cooked up lunch while Dorje set up my tent as far away from the other tents as we could get. The rain returned, the temperature dropped, and retreating to my tent after lunch, I found I had taken on water. Nothing was damaged because, thanks to my friend’s advice, everything I had was in zip lock bags. Numgal came with a bowl and spoon and collected as much water as possible. I spent the remainder of the afternoon in a very damp tent, wondering if I was still having fun.

It is time to shorten up the story. Late that afternoon, I abandoned the tent, collected my belongings and checked into the guest house. It was not much but at least there was a dry roof over my head. Numgal and I agreed that if the rain did not stop we would make other arrangements. The following morning it was still raining. Time to make the phone call. Numgal was able to call from the large house. He contacted the tour company and an hour later we were driving down the road, heading to a new destination. I was actually sorry to leave Dorje behind as he had become such an important part of my experience. I tipped him most generously and he collected his donkeys and began his own trek home. He would be there in four days.

The driver who picked us up remained with us for the duration of my stay in Ladakh. He was an old man, set in his ways, and not always receptive to my constant requests to slow down. Numgal and I continued to tour the country. We visited more monasteries, attended religious ceremonies, and crossed the 19,000 foot pass into the Nubra Valley, which may be listed as one of the places at the end of the earth, even after I had arrived. Back to Leh, I spent one more night at the Deskit Guest House before returning to Delhi, where I would spend a few more days before going home. At the Delhi Airport I found Suzy, Doris, and Doris. In our own way, all of us enjoyed our experiences in Ladakh. Like you always do, we promised to keep in touch.

TREKKING

Even though it may seem dated, people are still coming to Buddhist countries to “find themselves” and like the author I was reading during my stay in Ladakh, they come hoping to peel away enough of the accretions of Western life to allow their inner selves to spring free. Hoping to comprehend the oneness of the world, they willingly trade in Western material values for Buddhism’s spirituality and emphasis on wisdom and compassion. The process implies an uncovering of what you really are. I did not go there to find myself, and even though I enjoyed visiting the monasteries, I was not seeking spirituality. I did not intend to strip down, but to “suit up.” I arrived eager to collect experiences which would enrich my concept of myself. I also went to Ladakh to test myself and each mountain I climbed was my own personal Everest. I enjoyed the sense of achievement and I had fun. When the rain came, the fun went out; there was really no reason to continue. The tour company organized another program and Numgal and I continued touring. We kept all of our supplies and each night in the guest house, Numgal set up his kitchen and even though the accommodations were rough, I continued to eat fantastic Indian food.

I was very fortunate to have Numgal for my guide. He was a fantastic twenty something and as a practicing Buddhist, a true example of wisdom and compassion. I left satisfied and I am sure Numgal was very pleased with me. The experience was so rewarding that I have contacted Tomas at Footloose Travel Guides to set up another trek. This June (2008) I hope to be e-mailing from the path to Mustang. Look up Nepal on a map, locate the Kaligandaki River that runs through the middle of the country and up in the northern part of the country you should find Mustang.

I was dressed and ready to go when Numgal knocked on my door at 7:00, bringing me a bowl of hot water and a pot of tea. Room service cannot get much better than this. When I entered the cook tent, Dorje ushered me to my same table. Numgal had prepared fried eggs, complete with toast and jam and had turned last night’s rice into morning porridge, flavored with the left over apricots. Dorje had steamed the puris, quite a feat considering we did not have a steamer.

While I enjoyed breakfast, Dorje loaded the donkeys. In Ladakh, sturdy cardboard boxes are scarce and it is easier to rely on old fashion methods of carrying goods. We had several tin trunks and many jute sacks. Because there is no packing tape, these sacks were secured by sewing them closed and of course, each time they were opened, Dorje would sew them back together. Our vegetables were stored in a slated wood crate and the eggs were placed in double sided egg cartons.

By 9:00, our small caravan was ready to leave, four donkeys, Numgal, Dorje, and me. The largest donkey had to carry my luggage and I sensed he was looking at me wondering why, even out here, I had to bring so much stuff. The baby donkey only had to contend with Numgal’s kerosene burner, bottles of extra kerosene, and the egg carton. When we reached the paved road, Dorje turned right and I started to follow him until Numgal pointed to a small path leading in another direction. Our trek was through the countryside and the road would be used only when necessary. I waved goodbye to Dorje and the donkeys and soon Numgal and I were walking along the edge of terraced fields planted with barley, wheat, and the brilliant yellow flowers of the mustard seed plant. Like every other Ladkhi morning, the sky was royal blue with a few fluffy clouds hanging over the snow capped peaks framing the distance. Once again, the clear air intensified every color in the landscape. We passed by a house and looking up, I saw a little boy wearing a monk’s robe, looking out the window. He called out “juley, juley” and I felt he was wishing me good luck. We were joining a morning in full swing and the people hoeing in the fields stopped and waved. At this time, the sun was still in a gentle mood, without giving any hint of what was to come. Finally, my trek had begun, and if joy had a sound, beautiful music would have resonated across the valley.

After about a thirty minute walk through this luscious oasis, my idyllic moment confronted reality. By definition, oases end in deserts. I had seen this same scenery from my balcony and many times from the van. But now I was standing at the edge of an endless stretch of desert, an ocean of sand extending as far as I could see and bordered on each side by barren mountain ranges. Numgal pointed into the distance and said we were heading toward a mountain pass, not yet viewable. At this point, my shoes were working out fine, as I had spent time breaking them in, the legs were going good, but my back was really hurting. I had given my original backpack to my temple guide and bought a new one which had a mesh backing, but unfortunately within thirty minutes I found out I was not capable of carrying it on my back. Numgal noticed my situation. Without asking, he took the pack and slung it across his chest. I sincerely apologized, but he said the weight was nothing to him and not to worry. While Numgal toted two packs, I was left with my water bottle, actually a refilled plastic coke bottle, and my camera. With my hat on and my cotton Khmer/Cambodian scarf wrapped around my neck, we entered the desert.

WALKING THROUGH NO MAN’S LAND

Once we got started, walking was surprisingly easy because the sand was so firmly packed, but how little I knew at the time that this terrain would not last. The land was totally barren, a desiccated place with not a thing attempting to grow. Wrapped in solitude, we were the only ones there. We were gaining altitude but the incline was so slight that it was hardly noticed. I thought we were making good time and thirty minutes later we had cleared the pass which was listed around 11,000 feet. The tour program described it as a “small pass” but for me it felt like success. We took a short rest. Numgal took my victory picture as I stood under the Buddhist prayer banner, and I placed a stone on the mani wall. These walls carry religious meanings and many times the stones are painted with Tibetan Buddhist symbols. People add stones in respect to the Buddha. Also, placing a stone on the wall is a way to confirm your existence in the presence of an unforgiving, indifferent landscape, where there is no other sign of life but yourself. From the crest of this mountain, Numgal pointed out our next pass. At best I could tell, he was pointing to mountains far in the distance.

I soon learned whenever we climbed up we would eventually be heading down. As we began our descent, we quickly found the previous hard packed sand had turned into loose gravel, which in turn evolved into large stones. Walking now became difficult and to add another degree of difficulty, the sun was warming up. Slowly we made our way down the mountain and at the bottom found ourselves in a ravine with a dried out river bed. With tall mountains hovering over us, we followed the path, which attempted to hug the contour of the mountains. We confronted rock slides, as if the mountains had discarded everything they no longer needed in order to annoy anyone who dared walk past. The path across the rock slide was so narrow that it could accommodate only one foot at a time. I was now walking through those barren mountains I had seen from the balcony, glowing golden in the early morning sun. Seen close up, experiencing their jagged stones underfoot, they certainly produced another point of view. Eventually, the path turned upward and when we finally reached the top, we rejoined the paved road and saw Dorje and the donkeys coming around the bend.

The donkeys did not like walking on the hot pavement and preferred to walk along the graveled edges where they could stop and nibble tasty wild flowers. Dorje now carried a stick to encourage them to keep moving. As for me, I had no trouble walking on the road; here at last I found solid footing while I enjoyed having this little part of the world all to ourselves. But this respite was short lived and heading toward that second pass in the distance, Numgal and I left the sealed road and began walking down what Numgal described as an ancient sheppard trail. We repeated the same process as before and the closer to the bottom, the looser the gravel, and the larger the stones. But this time at the bottom, we found a stream flowing swiftly with cold melted snow. Numgal pointed to a grove of willow trees alongside the bank and said we would stop there for lunch.

The green banks of the river looked like Paradise, but as any Buddhist knows, sometimes it is not so easy to attain. As we approached, we realized the willow grove was guarded by a wall of bramble bushes and very carefully Numgal and I crawled through. I collapsed on a soft grassy patch. It was 12:00. We had been hiking up and down mountains for three hours and Numgal said we had two more to go. Along with my pack and his pack, he was also carrying our lunch. This time the hardboiled egg was fantastic and I even enjoyed what had now become the ubiquitous boiled potato. He had made peanut butter sandwiches out of the left over puris and he also included two boxed juices. For a surprise, he added a few pieces of cheese. I shared a power bar with Numgal and hoped this supplement to lunch would deliver what had been promised on the wrapper.

The sun was high above, making its presence well known to those of us down below. Even the temporary shade of the willow grove could not keep us cool. I laid down on my back in the soft grass and placed my Khmer scarf, dripping icy water, over myself like a shroud. Only the wild mountain roses seemed to enjoy the heat and their deep pink blossoms radiated in the bright sunshine.

It was 1:00 when we began to climb out of the river bed, heading for the top. My Khmer scarf had almost dried off and I soaked it again in the freezing water, wrapped it around my head to try to stay cool, and said, “let’s go”. I didn’t care if I was confronting a high hill or a mountain, all I knew was the path went straight up and was covered in loose gravel, the kind where you take one step forward hoping you do not take two steps back. The sun had become a scorcher, as if it only had eyes for us and the oppressive heat and the steep incline made the walk up extremely difficult. Wrapped up in my scarf with only slits for eyes, my view of the world narrowed and all I was able to see was the ground below me, which I was conquering one painful step at the time. Even though the water dripping off my scarf had a cooling effect, the moisture attracted large flies that swarmed around me, making their nasty buzzing sound. Swatting huge flies was just another degree of difficulty as I trudged upward. Numgal kept turning around to make sure I was still going and when he got too far ahead he stopped and waited for me to catch up. There were no trees and we rested in the meager shade provided by a large boulder but the sun remained relentless and the flies every vigilante. I was eying my watch, trying to walk at least fifteen minutes before I had to stop but at times I had to stop sooner. I kept wondering when that power bar would kick in. Finally, about an hour later, I was able to see the top and eventually we were there.

Walking a short distance, we found ourselves at the pass and once again encountered prayer flags, chortens (stupas) and another mani wall. I placed a stone on the wall and thanked Buddha just in case he had anything to do with my reaching the top. Numgal and I ate another power bar, even though I was very dubious about their effect and he announced we had only one more hour to go. In the distance I could see another oasis, the location of our camp site. The going was much easier and soon we rejoined the sealed road. By the time we reached our destination I figured we had walked five hours.

OUR CAMP SITE

The camp site consisted of a two story house built into the side of the road where the guides would sleep and a finger of land surrounded on two sides by a roaring stream, where tents would be set up for the trekkers. This area was reached by crossing a small bridge constructed from perforated steel plate, probably left over from an Army construction site. By the time we arrived, Dorje had already unloaded the supplies, fed and tethered his donkeys, and set up my tent. He placed it next to the stream under a willow tree and from somewhere found a chair and a foot stool, which he placed in front of the tent. This was the first time I saw the tent. It was a tent for two, providing plenty of room for my stuff. I had brought an inflatable mattress but the one they provided was much thicker, almost a proper mattress. With carabineers, I attached my three flashlights to the top of the tent, allowing the light to shine down like a small chandelier. The rest of the day was “at leisure”, spent reading a book. There were no other trekkers in the camp site and once again, I found myself alone in this great expanse of nature. Even though the going was rough at times, I had survived the first day and was looking forward to the next.

I looked up to see Numgal walking toward me carrying the tea tray. He thought we should do tea earlier and poured a cup of cardamom tea and offered me more cookies. Looking up at the vivid blue sky, I felt at one with the world and at the time enjoyed the tea as if it was a fine glass of champagne.

As I was reading under the trees, Numgal and Dorje set up the kitchen area. It was agreed I would return at 4:30 to help prepare the lamb for tonight’s BBQ. They did not quite understand the term, but I explained we would cut the meat into cubes, put them on skewers, and cook them over a wood fire. As for me, the reading lasted only a short time and I soon found myself napping with thoughts of sizzling lamb. To be continued.

When I met with the tour director, I questioned him about Numgal, who had been assigned to be my trekking guide. I was assured he was very experienced and that I would enjoy his company. This was welcomed news but the detail I had not foreseen was the trek would be vegetarian. We would have eggs, but no meat or chicken. This made no sense to me since I had been surrounded by sheep and cows for the last five days. He explained that out in the countryside there was no one who was going to slaughter any animal because they were practicing Buddhists and all the Muslims who did this kind of work were only in Leh. The solution seemed simple, we would bring meat with us and even though there were no coolers available in Leh, I was assured whatever we brought could keep for two days.

Numgal and the driver picked me up at 12:00 with the van loaded down with all of our supplies. But before leaving town, we still had to purchase a few items. Numgal wanted to place each of my bags in a large sack which would protect them from the dust and make them easier to load onto the donkeys. He needed the large plastic sacks used to hold rice. Remember nothing goes to waste here, so we had no trouble locating the used sack merchant who was doing a brisk business on the sidewalk. We bought what was needed and looked for the dried fruit seller. We found an old man sitting on the sidewalk behind burlap sacks filled with various fruits and nuts. Ladakh is famous for apricots and even though his apricots were covered in flies, Numgal assured me they would be very delicious when he stewed them up with his special spices. The old man wrapped them up in newspaper as there are no plastic shopping bags in Ladakh and I guess styrofoam is a long way off. Next stop was a small grocery store not much wider than a narrow hallway. The shop keeper sat on a stool in the middle of his shop and was capable of reaching most anything you requested. We stocked up on canned tuna fish and detergent for the dishes and I suggested Pringles. Pringles must be truly global as I have found them most everywhere I have traveled and they are always flavored to suit the local taste. This is India and the flavor was curry. We bought four large bottles of water and Numgal assured me there would be bottled water for sale where we were going. But I was rather disconcerted when I found out that bottled water was not available in small bottles because I had been counting on two small bottles to carry on the trek. Hopefully, I would solve this problem later.

Numgal was ready to leave when I suggested we buy lamb chops, as I could already taste lamb roasted over a wood fire. I wondered why the driver pulled into a parking lot until I saw the lot was lined with butchers in small stalls. These were the Muslim butchers, the only ones who do the “dirty work”. Each butcher displayed the head of an animal, signifying the type of meat he sold. We went to a stall featuring the head of a sheep. The butcher was wearing his skull cap, sitting on a small bed and the size of his shop was a small closet. I told Nugmal we did not want meat from the large carcass which was hanging up, because we wanted baby lamb. I pointed t o my ribs and Numgal asked him for lamb chops. Still sitting on his bed, the butcher rummaged around in a small box, which definitely was not a frozen food locker, and came up with a small leg of lamb. Accepting that, he placed it on his chopping board, smeared with the fat of many other pieces of meat, and hacked it into small pieces. With our parcel wrapped up in newspaper, we were now ready to leave Leh. As we walked away, I noticed two small lamb heads thrown into a bucket but in Buddhist talk, I did not feel I was spiraling down to barbarism.

In Ladakh, the merchants are either Moslems from the Kashmir or Indians. Both groups have had centuries to hone their trading skills while the Ladakhi people remained farmers. However, in the city, since the Ladakhi people were there first, they are the landlords and the Moslems and Indians, who always feel superior to the gentle Ladakhis, are the renters.

HEADING TO THE TREKING SITE

As we left Leh, the driver passed a convoy of Army troops on maneuvers. For the entire two weeks I spent in Leh, along with the mountains and the monasteries, we would continue to see the army presence. At times it appeared that the entire area is one large army outpost. The road leading out of Leh was a perfectly good paved four lane highway, which at times even had lines painted down the middle. But this kind of road is just a teaser because soon we found ourselves on a thinly paved 1 ½ lane road which pared down to a two lane highway, deteriorating on either side, like a decaying tooth. My driver was taking it easy, allowing my heart to stay out of my mouth as vans full of trekkers and Tata trucks passed us at will.

An hour out of town we stop at a bus stop for lunch. There were several small restaurants to choose from and by looking at the cooking pots, you could tell the type of food available. Large bamboo steaming baskets were filled with momos, the Tibetan dumpling, large pots contained noodle soup, and a man with a wok was frying up crispy Indian treats. Since we would be walking for the next five days, I did not want to upset the stomach gods and was very happy to eat from the lunch box the Deskit Guest House had been providing. Nothing could be safer than a hardboiled egg, a boiled potato, something that has been masquerading as bread, and a banana, with its usual dark spots. But they always remembered the salt and pepper.

Second rule of travel, after never take the first room, is to never pass up an offered toilet and always have your pockets stuffed with tissues, as you never know. I followed Numgal behind the bus station where he pointed to a one story brick tower located in the middle of a construction site. Attached to the building was a sign with the word “toilet” and an arrow pointing upward. I thought the direction was wrong but after walking around the building and not finding a door, I realized, as per the tour book, I was to climb up the crudely constructed ladder and seek the toilet on the roof. Just as the tour book described, I found a hole in the middle of the sandy covered floor. Then I got to experience a Ladakhi dry toilet. Once again, nothing here goes to waste and all the deposits are collected and turned into fertilizer.

Back up on the two lane, we still had a two hour drive to our camp site. Soon I noticed two ladies walking along the road spinning their prayer wheels. When I have a driver and guide and lots of space, I am always willing to pickup people walking, especially women. We stopped and offered them a ride. The younger woman was hesitant but after Numgal’s gentle coaxing and a not too subtle push from the older woman, the two women made themselves very comfortable in the back of the van. They accepted the food left in my lunch box. They enjoyed the juice and the bread, but had a little difficulty eating the candy bar because they did not possess two opposing teeth. I asked Numgal to find out their story and where they were going. This was a mother-in-law and she was taking her daughter-in-law to a monastery to make an offering so that she would finally have a grandchild, preferably a boy. The mother-law-law said she was tired of waiting. They had tied wishes to trees, they had visited a shaman, and this was the last opportunity. Maybe we earned a little merit as we drove them for around 1 ½ hours before depositing them at the monastery. Thirty minutes later, we pulled into the camp site. Dorje, the donkey man, was there waiting for us with his four donkeys tethered to the fence.

AT THE CAMP SITE

The camp site was actually a gravel parking lot in front of a guest house and when given the option of sleeping in a tent or in one of their rooms, I opted for the room, especially since there would be enough opportunity later for sleeping in a tent. Leaving Numgal and Dorje in the parking lot, an old woman, dressed in traditional clothing, led me to my room. I was happy to have the room and this was not the kind of place to refuse the first room hoping for better. The charge was four dollars for the night and one dollar extra for breakfast, but it was agreed that Numgal would provide breakfast. This was a family run guest house, catering to trekkers and similar ones can be found all over Ladakh. A small sign advertised en suite bathrooms and even though it was Turkish style (a squatter in the floor) it was inside and I was not much troubled by the sink, which was not quite attached to the wall and lacked faucets, because I knew the shower by bucket was just a boiler away. In lieu of electricity, I found an assortment of used candles. I located my flashlights and laid out my sheet, blanket, and pillow, ready for an evening without much light.

Dinner was scheduled at 7:30 in the parking lot. This gave me plenty of time to read and make notes on the day’s happenings. Also, I was interested in meeting the women whose laundry was drying on the clothes line. The sun was too hot to allow me to sit in the garden and I retreated to the shade of the porch. The prayer flags were fluttering from the roof as the breeze was sending prayers to heaven and a shaggy dog was content to sleep at my feet. The only sound was the tinkling of a wind chime and once again I silently slipped into the arms of a serene moment. At 4:00 I looked up to see Numgal approaching. He was carrying a large tray, announcing it was time for tea time. What a surprise, tea on the veranda, by the side of the garden, even if it was a little over grown. The tea pot was full of loose tea and he had provided a proper tea strainer, a bowl of sugar, a tea cup, and a plate of cookies which he had artfully arranged. The surroundings may not have looked five star, but the service certainly was.

The women, who belonged to the laundry returned , and carrying my plate of cookies, I went up to introduce myself. Suzy, Doris, and another Doris were from Switzerland and had been trekking by themselves for the last five days, sleeping in guest houses. I marveled at the large backpacks they were carrying. They told me they had an easy day because they had met Dorje on the trail and the donkeys had carried their packs. I asked them how they were doing without a guide. The reply was they had a map and when they were not sure which path to take, they just guessed. They had been visiting the nearby monastery and saw two women praying before a large Buddha. I suspected these were the two women we had dropped off. We swapped travel stories and impressions of Ladakh and I think they enjoyed my conversation as they were getting a little bored with each other. They were eating dinner in the guest house and we agreed I would join them after my dinner.

DINNER AT CHEZ NUMGAL

Numgal had spent the day setting up his “field kitchen” and even though I did not smell the longed for aromas of lamb sizzling on an open fire, I had no idea of the experience awaiting me. Both men had changed their shirts, and like a maitre’d in a fine restaurant, Dorje ushered me to a table and chair, which they must have borrowed from the guest house. They had also borrowed a table cloth, placed a flower in a drinking glass, and lit several candles.

The first course was a tasty split pea soup, made from a packaged soup mix that Numgal had enhanced with various spices. Then he presented his lamb dish. He had turned the chunks of meat into a fantastic stew, accompanied by a thick tomato, mushroom sauce. There was a side dish of dal (lentils) served over rice plus sauteed cauliflower. For dessert, he had prepared the apricots, and he was right, they were very delicious. Dinner was concluded with a cup of cardamom tea. The evening was borderline surreal. I had enjoyed one of the best lamb stews I have ever had, a definite five star meal with five star service, under a sky filled with stars, in a gravel parking lot cum construction site, somewhere in up country Ladakh. Whatever Harvey was searching for, I think I found part of it that night. As far as merging time and space, I had no need to know the day of the week and my location, as pinpointed on a map, seemed irrelevant. The honesty and sincerity of the two guides, who could not do enough to make me comfortable, added to the wonder of the moment. If this kept up, I would soon be hearing the Buddhist sound of the void.

Even though Numgal started off shy and proved himself not much of a driver when he pulled out in front of that truck, he certainly excelled in the countryside and throughout the remaining week he was always smiling and maintained his sense of humor. Every meal Numgal cooked was exceptional and he did not have to worry about reigning in his culinary talents because early on I told him to cook the way he wanted because I enjoyed spicy food. His cooking equipment was limited to an old style pressure cooker, two pots, and a frying pan. His stove consisted of a one burner unit powered by kerosene. He proved to be a magician with vegetables, even those that would develop black spots, and what was not finished at dinner was artfully turned into something else for a later meal. Before he started cooking, he would line up his supply of spices, surrounding himself with boxes of salt, pepper, cumin, turmeric, coriander, and marsala mix, along with garlic and ass orted herbs, which he could only describe in his language. We did not have any tomatoes but he was able to turn Magi ketchup into delicious sauces. Numgal spoke enough English and understood more than he could speak but we never seemed to have any communication problems. Since I was in Buddhist country, I can say now that his skills unfolded like the petals of a lotus, and at the time I had no idea how important he was going to become to my well being.

Dorje appeared to be a happy man, always smiling and treating me as the honored guest. He brought his own small rolling pin and turned flour and water into delicious puris and chapatis. He was like the side kick and along with taking care of his donkeys, he helped Numgal and cleaned up after dinner. Dorje never stopped talking and telling jokes. Maybe this was a little tiring for Numgal, but Dorje probably needed to talk to someone other than his donkeys.

A VISIT TO A LADAKHI HOUSE

After dinner, I left Numgal straightening up and Dorje doing the dishes with water from a house. I was too far into this to worry about the quality of the water. Suzy, Doris, and Doris had invited me to join them for their dinner. We went to the family’s main house and were graciously received by a beautiful young woman, wearing a flight jacket, which I thought a little strange. We entered into a large downstairs room which was considered their ceremonial room, the place where they conducted religious ceremonies, weddings, coming of age parties, etc. We sat on banquettes with low tables in front of us, similar to that at the Deskit Guest house, and quickly became comfortable among the many pillows and bolsters. As in all traditional houses, an entire wall was dedicated to the family collection of cooking pots, teapots and bowls, large samovars, and assorted brick-a-brac, collected over the years. She said up to 500 people would be invited to their parties which included extended family and friends. The most unusual object was a plastic clock in the shape of a chorten(stupa) and on the hour it chanted out the mantra dedicated to Avalokiteshvara, god of compassion and mercy, om mani padme om, hail to the jewel in the lotus. Of course made in China and when I asked her if this was a way to earn merit, she laughed and said a little.

While we watched her making dough from barley flour and water, which would be boiled and turned into a kind of spretzel, she told us the story of her life. She was born in this area and had been able to go to Delhi to attend flight school. She wanted to be a pilot. Later her parents informed her they had arranged for her to be married to a local boy. Even though she was almost finished with her studies, she had to be a dutiful daughter. Abandoning her dream, she returned home. She had been married for five years. The husband was in Leh running a tour company and a computer store and even though she had almost made it out of there, she was now left behind to run the guest house owned by her in-laws. Her mother-in-law was a retired oracle. She was able to see into the future and when paid the right price, could offer insights from the beyond. As per the book I was reading, there are people in Ladakh who are able to go into a trance, make contact with the other side, and bring back information regarding the future or insights on how to deal with the present. When in a trance, they would be able to speak perfect Tibetan and of course not remember the language or anything else when the trance was over. Since she had her daughter-in-law to rely on, she was able to retire from her profession, claiming it was too exhausting. The father-in-law, when not driving a truck, had been an astrologer. But he too had retired from work and was content to cultivate his garden.

She was completely charming and it was a delightful evening. I said goodbye to the Swiss ladies. Coincidentally, we were all departing from Delhi on the same flight to Frankfurt and I promised to look for them at the gate. Returning to my room, I was surprised by the knock on the door. Opening the door, I found our dinner hostess offering me a bucket of hot water. The charm just continued. With all flashlights and candles burning, I became relatively clean. Wrapping up in my sheet and blanket, sleep found me just as soon as my head hit my Walgreen pillow. Tomorrow would we would start our trek.