My shortcuts never turn out to be shortcuts. Instead, they turn in long lost wanderings through the middle of nowhere trying to find my way with head wobble directions from locals which are impossible to judge correctly when the roads disappear under glacial run-off from the glacial peaks towering above or massive boulders slide into the muddy roads blocking my way. One recent mislead shortcut wasn't my fault though; well none of them are really my fault when I tell the story, but I blame this one on the map. Our great Indian Road Atlas showed a road connecting the village of Kibber to the 700 year-old Komik Monastery...key word "showed." We set off from Kibber wearing shorts, t-shirts and were worried more about sunburn than anything else. After a thirty-minute climb up a ridge where we ran into a herd of wild blue mountain sheep, the skies darkened, the wind silenced and with it the fear of sunburn vanished. With one silenced fear came a much bigger one: an unexpected nasty hailstorm. In the matter of minutes we were being pelted with Skittle-sized pieces of ice blowing sideways from the storm's powerful winds. After two wrecks, a broken side toolbox, broken foot stand, torn pants, and a damaged ego, the hail stopped but we were lost as night was quickly approaching on the high barren slopes of the Spiti valley, 18km from the Tibetan border. Not a good situation to be in!Suddenly, from out of nowhere, a yak herder tending to about a dozen yaks and dzos (a mix between a yak and a cow) appears on the ridge above us. I think he was just as shocked to see us, as we were to see him when we rushed to him for directions. With a gentle smile and a half-head wobble, he led us down a dirt path to a village named Tashigang, Tibetan for a high beautiful place. That was the start of an eventful week that grew more bizarre and exiting with each passing day; a week filled with breathtaking views; goats and their shepherds; yaks and their herders; glaciers and their ice-cold runoff forming waterfalls that captivate the imagination with their size and frequency but causing havoc on the roads; triumphant sporting moments beating local yak herders in a friendly game of cricket only to be humbled the next day in a intense volleyball game with Buddhist monks half my size in what I would call my most embarrassing sporting event ever!The events from the previous week have all taken place in the Spiti valley. The Spiti valley is a desert mountain valley located high in the Himalayan mountains, which is periodically cut off totally during winter by horrendous snowfalls and thick icing conditions. It possesses a distinctive Buddhist culture similar to that found in nearby Tibet. The valley and surrounding region is one of the least populated regions in India and is the gateway to the northernmost reaches of the country, Ladakh. Many times we came within twenty kilometers of the Tibetan border until my Israeli friend, Hagai, and I finally mustered up the courage to venture eastward to the border.We spent over an hour and liters of precious petrol climbing the border mountain between India and China with no idea of what waited for us ahead. Our only plan was to act lost if we were forced to stop. About one kilometer from the peak and subsequent border, the army guards jumped in front of our bikes stopping us in our tracks. They proceeded to wave their batons in the air while angrily shouting Hindi insults our way. They weren't happy! I was a little worried at first but there is one thing I learned about Indian government officials in Dharamsala long ago: humor them!The Dharamsala police rolled my bike away from a perfectly legal parking place knowing it had to be a foreign tourist's bike because no self-respecting Indian would be caught dead riding a pink Enfield. They wanted tourist bikes to get back shish (a bride) from them nervous tourists that don't have a driver's license or insurance such as myself. I retrieved my bike title from my room, printed off a fake insurance form from the Internet, and reported to the police stand to find all of the policemen staring at my pink bike. The police chief was demanding 1,000Rs ($25) for improper parking, fake insurance and for just being a foreigner. I thought he had me but then I pulled out my West Virginia driver's license and my family photos popped out. He was intrigued. I told him a brief family history of how my family are cattle keepers just like a good Hindu. I omitted the small fact that we were beef farmers raising cattle to be hamburgers but he never asked. After a chai (milk tea) and more tale tales about my family history omitting other possibly offending facts, the chief wished me a happy journey before handing over my keys with zero rupees paid. I was so shocking that it was comical.Back at the Indo-Chinese with the angry batons whirling sergeants, Hagai and I tried the same approach, humor. I don't know what finally broke the ice but I think it was when Hagai told the guards American women loved Indian men. Knowing I was from the States, they looked at me with astonishment. Holding back a sly grin, I agreed continued the story in detail. The enchanted guards needed details. Ten minutes later we found ourselves in a bunker drinking chai and homemade rice wine with the broad generalization that all American women loved all Indian men being our ticket. The conversation was surreal. I think part of it went like this, Curious Guard: "Are all women like Monica Lewisky "Me: "Of course, all like that" Excited Guard: "If I come to America, can I get girl like Monica Lewisky?" Me: "I know one just for you" Rounds of joyous laughter, high-fives, hugs, and bottles of rice wine ensued. Keep in mind, this was all taking place in an army bunker one kilometer from the disputed Indo-Chinese (Tibetan) border where no foreigners are allowed to visit. That's kind of funny!When the embarrassing volleyball games thankfully ended, the cricket balls were lost, the bike was fixed, the drunken border guards passed out, and no hail storms in sight, I found myself sitting in a small village, Nako. Nako is a village just small enough not to get lost in but big enough to provide a new route through the maze of narrow earthen streets each time I wandered through. In my wanderings through the alleys, I found a rock to call home for an hour to record the sights and sounds of the Himalayan village:
Sitting on a lonely rock in a forgotten street Nako comes to life; toddlers barely old enough to walk roam the street's unafraid and unharmed; ladies are frying seeds into tiny kernels for sale in the local market in animal kraals; the steady "Ping, Ding, Ping, Ding, Ping" of hammers chiseling away at rocks shaping them into desired shaped for new houses or animal kraals; old women that can barely stand upright slowly carrying thatched baskets full of green fodder for the animals; a donkey nays the sounds of a frustrated lover as he frantically searches for a mate; Tibetan prayer flags flapping in the gusty mountain winds (red, green, blue, white, and yellow representing sun, grass, sky, clouds and earth respectively), men walking briskly in and out of the alleys as they are loaded down with two, three or four lumber beams for the constant maintenance and construction of the traditional Tibetan styled homes made mostly from rocks, mud, manure and sticks from the surrounding area; a Bollywood tune plays in the distance, probably from a TV, for no matter how far into the Indian countryside you venture, every village has electricity and several satellite dishes perched atop their houses made of cow dung and rocks. The ears being tickled by the Bollywood tune most likely belongs to a man since most of the women are hard at work with numerous chores like most third world or traditional settings. I think...oh no..it is Om Shanti Om, the most popular Hindi movie and subsequent song in Bollywood history that is overplayed to the hilt. A woman just passed with freshly processed flour and cooking oil in one hand and a clump of cow dung in the other to fuel the fire that will cook the flour with the cooking oil.One major difference in the mountainous village vs. the low-laying Indian villages to the south is the smell. In the mountains, ammonia fumes from yak, dzo, cow, donkey, sheep and goat manure are overwhelming; so strong that a headache instantly ensues the initial whiff. The same smell exists in the south but is drowned out by the smell of burning trash suffocating the nostrils and stinging the taste buds; the smell of poverty. In Spiti, there small black smoke plums from burning trash piles are non-existent. The streets are somewhat clear of various forms of litter. How refreshing!My fairytale is not complete, however. Amid the most simplistic agrarian lifestyle operated through a maze of stone huts and earthen alleyways, sits state of the art solar panels atop a twenty-foot stainless steel pole peaking it panels just above the Tibetan thatched rooftops. The solar panels charge all day to serve as night-lights in their strategically placed positions in the village. As I said before each village has power bringing with it the eyesore of power-lines strewn across the alleys just high enough to escape a nomadic toddlers curious grasp. The power lines are out of place and scar on the otherwise fairytale Himalayan village, but who am I to say they can't enjoy the pleasures of modern technology, even if that means listening to Om Shanti Om on repeat.A small calf wanders past; the horny donkey still nays in the distance as he continues his search for a mate; an old lady passes to collect to the fresh dropping from the calf to patch her house or to mold into disks for fuel; the prayer flags are still flapping in the wind as they start to tether at the fringes; a drunken elderly man carrying a half-empty bottle of rice wine stops to talk with the calf for at least a minute before he realizes he is talking with a calf, my company less is far less interesting as the stumbling elder only stops to chat with me for a brief moment, local birds still singing the sweet Himalayan songs, and now I am surrounded by four nomadic toddlers watching my every move with awe and wonder hoping for a sweet. Ok..I give in! I pass out chocolate cookies and watch as they scurry off with excitement and giggles.
An hour is up and time to return home where I find a Buddist nun and her thirty year old brother eagerly awaiting to see who is America's favorite dancer in the hit reality TV show finale, "So You Think You Can Dance."
Where am I again?
