All the Roadrunning

This adventure took place between mid-April and the end of June 2008.  What began in Delhi as a journey into the unknown ended up heading in a familiar  direction, although one that I never had expected.

Last week I did celebrate the Midsummer Festival, although I must make a few clarifications from my last post. Yes the Swedes danced around a pole, however, I was most pleasantly surprised to discover that it was not actually a burning pole, just a normal, non-burning version. Prior to this discovery, I had spent sleepless nights trying to devise an acceptable excuse for not wanting to don the white robes and hood that I assumed would be handed out before the ceremony began.

And yes, old Croatian folk songs were most definitely sung, just as one would naturally expect at a traditional Swedish festival. But the singing did not take place during the dancing. Instead, several overall-clad Croatian folk stood under the shadows of the historic barn in an almost opening ceremony-like concert, strumming their guitars and mandolins, singing words that nobody in the audience could understand. But everyone was smiling and some were even swaying back and forth, rocking in slow motion to the catchy ditties that their grandparents never sung to them when they were children.

This celebration was unfortunately hampered somewhat by the typical on again off again rainstorms that plagued the afternoon. But overall, Midsummer was a success and the evening´s festivities were more than enjoyable, except for the customary shots of Dill & Cumin-flavored aquavit (local liquor).

A few days later I boarded the bus for the journey to Oslo, Norway. The ride across Sweden took six and a half hours and actually left me in quite a sour mood. I simply could not believe that we arrived into Oslo so late. Lateness never happens here, absolutely never. Or so I thought. We were scheduled to arrive at 3:30pm and I was livid when the bus rolled into the Central Bus Station at 3:36pm. How dare this bus driver ruin my belief that Sweden is the most organized and efficient place on the planet? Could he not have made up the six minutes somewhere en route? It was chaos I tell you. I still get tense when I think about it.

And then a friend of a friend of a friend met me at the station, most generously offering me her hospitality for my 16 hour stay in Norway. After taking me on the whirlwind tour of Oslo, she gave me the keys to her apartment while she and her boyfriend were at work. And so I returned to their comfortable pad to rest and relax before I had to leave for the airport at 4am.

Although, when I opened the door to the apartment, I was greeted by none other than a massive pit bull with a giant blue ball in its mouth. It looked like she was devouring planet earth. I immediately froze and it jumped up and down. I remained frozen and it growled, ran around in circles and proudly displayed its two inch fangs. I tip toed into the apartment, not wanting to disturb the possible family of pit bulls that might be hiding around the corner, ready to pounce and attack.

Well, it turned out that there was only one pit bull. And her name was Sassy. But for the next couple of hours, however, I was forced to sit still on the sofa, very still, while Sassy jumped on my lap, licked my arms and lunged for my face every so often. My constant shaking and sweating were ample displays of fear that this dog luckily did not pick up on.

Instead, Sassy finally tired herself out and fell asleep in the bedroom, allowing me to begin breathing again, although as quietly as possible of course. As time passed, I also eventually abandoned the escape route that I had devised upon hearing the first of Sassy´s numerous growls. And considering that this route had required me to leap off of the fourth floor balcony and onto a wooden children´s playground structure, I was quite relieved.

So, I am happy to report that I have survived all of the brutal risks and terrifying dangers of Scandanavia that were thrown directly in my path. Now I must simply survive my flight home, a journey that certainly cannot be classified as ´short´ nor ´direct´. I will now spend multiple hours not only on three separate flights but in between as well, at the fine airports of Amsterdam and Washington D.C., before arriving back in Florida.

And once I arrive, it will already be time to get organized yet again and prepare for the next journey. I have less than two weeks before I step foot onto the Queen Mary 2 and I must transform myself, both mentally and physically, from a backpacking traveler into an officer on the most luxurious ocean liner in the world. Its not an easy thing to do.

I´m still in Sweden.

In fact, Friday is the Midsummer Festival, which takes place on the longest day of the year over here. Although, since every day that I have been here has lacked any darkness whatsoever, I am not entirely sure what to expect. One Swede informed me that the festival commemorates the potato harvest, another said it was the end of the season for making hay to feed the horses. However, most of the Swedes I have asked have simply admitted that they had no idea what the Midsummer Festival actually celebrated.

I have been invited to a ´traditional´ celebration during the day, which apparently involves dancing around a burning pole in the middle of a large field while singing old Croatian folk songs and drinking shots of the Scandanavian liquor aquavit. This odd event is then followed by a dinner of smoked salmon, herring and gingerbread cookies and a party at a golf course. I´ll let you know how that one goes.

I have now visited several castles around Lake Malaren and have hiked across some if its islands. I toured the Vasa – an old naval ship from the early 1600s that sank 20 minutes after leaving its dock for the first time. But it was then rediscovered 338 years later and raised to the surface, 97% in tact, its excellent condition attributed to the low level of salt in the region´s waters. Only in Sweden would they build a massive museum complex to proudly display what has to be one of the most embarrassing naval disasters of all time.

And so, as I continue to observe people purchasing ice cream by sending text messages on their cell phones and as I continue to contemplate why packages are delivered to the supermarket for pickup instead of to your home or the post office, I can not help reaching the conclusion that Sweden is an even stranger place than India. Honestly, nowhere else do people purchase such high quantities of bag-in-a-box wine.

But regardless, I do plan to remain in this quirky, yet lovable land until Monday, the day when I will jump on board the elongated yellow Swebus Express and travel across the country to Oslo. I will spend two days there before catching my flight back to the states, giving me a week and a half to mentally prepare myself for my stint back on board the ship.

And before I end this entry, I want to wish my sister a most happy birthday today!

Now that four days has passed here in the land of Swedes, I am finally over the fever that attacked me during my drastic change of location. And as much as I was hoping that Sweden would turn out to be the ¨India of Northern Europe¨, it has naturally turned out to be exactly what it is, Sweden.

Auto rickshaws and their bicycle cousins have transformed into Saabs and Volvos. Every breath of air is so ridiculously fresh that it is almost as equally disturbing as a lungful of Delhi´s thickly polluted version. It is peaceful wherever you go, not much rushing around taking place at all over here. The scenery is simple – a flat landscape where the purest green abruptly changes into the purest blue. You need to wear sunglasses just to look at the grass. Sunset does not come so early, actually, it barely comes at all. Where I am, the sun officially sets at 11pm and rises at 3:30am, however, it fails to get dark in between, the blazing ball of fire always lurking just below the horizon. It is light enough at 2am that you could drive around safely without your head lights on.

Everything is always organized and on time. The trains and buses are simply never late. Everyone waits for the traffic lights to change before crossing the street (and this is not Manhattan, there are seldom any cars approaching at all!), driving faster than 30 mph is considered dangerous and grounds for being committed. There are bicycles everywhere, people of all ages choosing to avoid the unaffordably high prices of petrol. Despite having relatively warm weather for only two months a year, Grandpa Gustavsson and little Bjorn continue to bike around even in the middle of winter. Many a Swede have proudly displayed the scars on their bodies that resulted from mid-winter bicycle accidents.

Even with it being June now it is still cold. Temperatures are struggling to reach 50 degrees during the day, which is the same as 0 degrees to me. After so many years now in hot climates, anything under 70 degrees requires me to pull out my winter wear. It even hailed yesterday, leaving an inch layer of ice on the ground in some places.

But it is summer nonetheless and the Swedes refuse to let something as silly as extremely low temperatures stand in the way of their enjoyment of this warmest of seasons. People are sunbathing in bikinis in the parks, wearing short shorts and sitting outside to eat their meals. I have yet to see one person wearing winter attire, even at night when it drops to 40 degrees. They simply refuse to have their short summer taken away and so the entire nation defiantly denies the cold. As a result, it appears that they really do end up feeling warm in the end, enabling them to actually think it is summer weather and therefore to make the most of the summer months. Meanwhile, I went shopping for a winter hat and gloves and began sewing my own long underwear.

It is a beautiful, atmospheric country. An expensive, beautiful and atmospheric country. It seems that every time I step out into the streets I end up spending $100 and all I have to show for it is an empty muffin wrapper and a tiny packet of tissues. But, the people are kind and warm and down to earth, just what you want in a ´people´. And I say this despite their widely held belief that it is quite normal to cut off ones small toes if they become bothersome after the age of 25.

I am flying to Stockholm on Monday morning.

India has served its purpose. This land of contrasts and colors and camels has sorted out my head as only it can do. It has led me to finally chart a course for my near future, ending the constant floating between dreams and temporary ideas.

And after so much time spent in India over the past 7 years, I am no longer surprised by much, and this includes the unexpected direction I shall now head. You see, my grand plans were merely an outline, a fantasy created to match the one I had experienced while working on board the cruise ships.

When I flew to India two months ago, I envisioned a course that included wild and dangerous adventures to wild and dangerous countries. But the situation unfolded differently. I found myself to be completely comfortable over here, at ease amid the constant madness, skilled in the game of survival that is constantly being played out. I needed to come here once again, to hear the music and devotion, to taste its flavor, to feel the thickness of its air upon my face. India is where my mind is free from defilement, it is where clearer decisions can be made.

I leave India with the understanding that my course, no matter how it proceeds, will remain my personal adventure. As long as I do not stray from the knowledge I have gained during my years of travel.

With that in mind, I fly to Sweden, a country I have yet to visit. I will visit a friend and spend some time in Europe. I plan to remain there until the end of June. And then what?

Well, at the start of July it appears that I will find myself in a place that I am all too familiar with, a place that I had said farewell to some four months ago. No, I am definitely not making a full return to ´ship life´. Instead, I will be spending a mere seven weeks back on board the Queen Mary 2 in order to help cover my old position during someone´s upcoming vacation. My ex-boss at Cunard Cruise Line asked me if I would do them this favor.

In addition, these two months in India have been an excellent jump start to my career as a writer. I have almost completed the book I have been working on and will soon need to start the search for a publisher. I have also begun receiving some serious interest in my travel articles, prompting the need to sit down and continue writing as much as possible.

And so, with all of these new developments, it seemed logical and worthwhile to pursue such opportunities over the next couple of months. But upon completion of my short contract on the cruise ship, I will re-examine, and possibly head to Africa or South America. All I know is that this re-calculated course feels necessary despite my initial eagerness to wander off and explore the remotest parts of Tibet (a visit to which has been made nearly impossible due to changes in China´s visa policy after the their Tibet crackdown two months ago).

I certainly intend to detail my upcoming return as Tour Manager on board the Queen Mary 2, where I will live and work among 1200 other crew members from around the world. This is not just some ordinary community that I will enter, as you will understand upon reading my ¨Farewell to Ship Life¨ article. I therefore invite you all to remain tuned in to my summer of posts, to my first-hand account of an underworld, the one I call ´ship life´, that you will never believe actually exists.

For two days we walked through squalid streets, lanes and fields containing shocking amounts of refuse and waste, both human and animal. The 120 degree temperatures typical of the pre-monsoon season created such an unbearable stench that the public urinals of Delhi suddenly seemed pleasantly aromatic. The massive 16th century mosque and palace that we had come to visit was often only barely visible through the thick screen of trillions of flies surviving off of the garbage and ferociously trying to enter our mouths. There was no electricity in the village, and hence, no fans, and often no water, to provide relief in our guest house room. As we lay drowning in sweat, the massive black biting ants teamed up with the mosquitos to attack us non-stop throughout the night as hundreds of mini-cockroaches invaded our backpacks.

It was a tough couple of days in the village of Fatehpur Sikri, some 20 miles outside the city of Agra. Although the palace and mosque were definitely worth a visit, their grandeur was easily overshadowed by the troublesome conditions. When we finally boarded the Kerala Express train for our return trip to Delhi, we agreed on what we needed to do once back in the capital city.

We needed to feel normal. We needed to spoil ourselves.

In some countries there is a uniqueness of being able to ski the slopes in the morning and surf the waves in the afternoon. In India, it is also possible to be in two very opposite environments in a very short period of time. After spending the morning among some of the poorest people on the planet, amid piles of trash and shit up to your waist, you can sit in an air-conditioned, upscale ice cream parlor in the evening, eating spoonfuls of chocolate sundae among the wealthy.

Not only did we indulge in cool and creamy deserts but we also visited trendy coffee shops, leafy, immaculate parks (Lodhi Gardens – well worth a visit!) and one of the fanciest cinemas I have ever stepped foot in. As Indiana Jones drove through the jungles of Peru last night, we grabbed handfuls from our tub of popcorn and laughed out loud simply because we needed to. When the ´cinema waiters´ passed by during intermission asking if there was anything they could do to further enhance our experience, we asked for nothing as we were already far more than satisfied.

And now, well, let´s just say that I thoroughly enjoyed my high-pressure shower and I anticipate a most comfortable night´s sleep in my room of cooled air, without having to swat and scratch and itch. Actually, I anticipate a few of these glorious nights, which will most likely be the last few that I will have in India during this visit.

My time here is coming to a close as it is simply time for me to move on. I have a few options at the moment and a decision should be made shortly. Meanwhile, if you need to get in touch with me, I´ll either be watching ´Iron Man´ at the cinema or drinking a Passionfruit Milkshake in the comfy cafes of Connaught Place.

If you ever feel the urge to really know how it feels to be a movie star, just visit the city of Amritsar. Home to the magnificent Golden Temple, the holiest of shrines for the Sikh religion, this city is much more accustomed to receiving Indian pilgrims from the rural countryside than foreign visitors. As a result, once my friend and I had given our shoes to the shoe-keeper, covered our heads in cloth (a required rule for all visitors), washed our feet in the somewhat unpleasant basin, we instantly became the center of attention, somehow becoming a much bigger focus than the most impressive glittering gold temple itself.

Surrounding the golden temple, which sits in the center of a square lake, is a marble structure. Once inside the gates, the masses simply walk around and around the lake along a wide marble floor, stopping to rest, pray or bathe in the waters, with the temple always directly in front of them.

After only a few seconds of our entrance, the amount of time it took for the first person to gather enough courage to approach us, we were mobbed, the crowds around us growing rapidly. Each person tried to push their way to the front of the group, with the hopes of staring directly into my eyes as they shouted out their praise of my latest film. They wanted autographs and photographs, lining up just to ask ¨One photo please?¨, and then fighting amongst themselves for the chance to be the one standing directly next to me.

I shook hands, patted backs and yelled out phrases such as ¨I could never do it without your support!¨ and ¨I love you all!¨ My few minutes of fame had finally arrived.

And so, for the first 45 minutes of our visit, we were followed by our adoring fans – children, women and men, from 5 years old to 80 – who seemed to forget that they were standing inside the most revered religious sanctuary in their religion. Dressed in their beautifully colorful and traditional Punjabi clothes, these people had come to find a special closeness with god, but were instead choosing to share a moment of closeness with me. They wanted me to bless their babies, grandparents and families, hoping that I would bring them more success than their prayers.

During our stay from 6:30pm – 8:30pm we completed one circuit of the lake, a distance that ordinarily should take no more than ten minutes. And it was tiring indeed – so many smiles, so many photographs, so much small talk, so little peace and quiet. But when small children approached us and left beaming with joy from a simple hand shake and ´hello´, I was genuinely satisfied that my cinematic career had touched the lives of so many people.

Yesterday we left the Kinnaur Valley, making our way straight across the state of Himachal Pradesh to the Western Ranges of the Himalayas.

At the bus station in Kalpa, every time a bus arrived, a crowd of eager villagers would grab all of their belongings and rush to board it, pushing and shoving each other with an accepted level of necessary aggression. They fought for the best seats, argued over who arrived first and crammed into every inch of space. Moments later they all disembarked the bus, re-grabbing their belongings, and headed back to the benches and floor space of the bus station. Wrong bus.

This scenario repeated itself several times without it ever occurring to the two dozen people to ask the bus driver where he was headed before they involved themselves in yet another pointless battle. Buses pulled into the station that clearly said, in both Hindi and English ¨Destination: Jammu & Kashmir¨ yet the rush would still take place, even though the crowd was trying to get to the state of Haryana, some seven hundred kilometers in the opposite direction of Kashmir.

Finally, when our bus pulled into the station, my friend and I pushed our way right into the middle of the madness. We fought hard to secure two good seats near the front, sending a solid elbow into the face of an elderly man and throwing a small child out of the window. After two minutes the battleground was littered with bodies, some in seats, others on the floor, others hanging out the door and the child still crying on the ground outside. I was not sure whether or not to urinate around our area in order to claim our territory once and for all. (Ok, not all of the above is true, I didn’t elbow the man!)

The bus departed Kalpa at 8:30am, taking us on a typically torturous journey to the mountain junction town of Rampur, where we arrived at 2:00pm. The bus to our next destination, Dharamsala, departed at 8pm, which gave us enough time to get a day room at a budget hotel, have a quick nap and eat one of the best meals I have had the good fortune to consume during my life. Let´s just say that the biryani, vegetable korma and butter naan, served in the luxurious hotel restaurant overlooking the Sutlej River, almost brought me to tears. I love food. And naturally, I really love really good food. This meal, which only cost 200 rupees ($5 USD), possessed that rare power that instantly dissipates any negativity and brings one miles closer to enlightenment.

In the end though, this meal proved to be the last happy moment that I would enjoy for a considerable amount of time.

The bus departed on time at 8pm, after I went and pleaded with the bus station manager to find my friend and I two seats on the already full vehicle. After some strong begging, the man walked on to the bus, made some forceful demands in Hindi and suddenly two seats opened up. Where else can you simply make two empty seats appear on an overcrowded bus? Anything is possible here if you know how to play the game.

All was well…for the first sixty minutes. After one hour of winding around the mountains, the bus stopped in a tiny village consisting of a few wooden shops and local dhabas (eateries). The ticket man on the bus yelled out something and all the passengers immediately disembarked. I looked at him and wagged my head to display my lack of understanding as to why we had stopped. He simply repeated his statement, which sounded like ¨Harfal jaga a roodle dee¨, while making a circular motion with his hands. That was a good enough explanation for me so we joined the others outside. And then the bus drove off, leaving all fifty of us passengers in the middle of the road.

It turned out that there was a puncture in one of the tires, but go figure, we did not have a spare tire. And so, the bus had to turn around and return to Rampur to get a new one. In the meantime, as the nighttime temperatures continued to drop, we all sat on a stone wall in the middle of this dark village for two and a half hours, wondering if the bus would ever return or if this was just a sick game played by the driver.

When it did return everyone hopped on board quickly, eager to make up for lost time. But once we were all finally back in our seats ready to go, the driver turned off the engine and went into a restaurant with the ticket man where they proceeded to indulge in a thirty minute dinner. How considerate of them.

The following eight hours involved traveling along an unpaved, dirt and rock path in the middle of the night, a crude road carved out of high cliffs that seemed to bitterly reject the presence of such a symbol of civilization. Had I been four feet tall the short seat back would have made it quite easy to sleep, but unfortunately being of normal size I could only sit and stare into the darkness. Dozens of Indian heads bobbed and bounced around me in a state of semi-consciousness, somehow remaining attached to their necks despite the constant jerking motion of the bus.

At five in the morning, after another hour delay due to another tire puncture, we finally arrived into the market town of Mandi. Our arrival here brought a moment of relief as the bus emptied for a brief moment and we changed to what appeared to be more comfortable seats. Unfortunately, after the bus filled up once again, we realized that these new seats were actually much worse, with an amount of leg room suitable only for someone without any legs at all. But alas, we only had to travel for six more hours and the road was paved! Out of sheer exhaustion, we did nod off from time to time, although the constant lung clearing spitting of the man directly behind me ensured that a deep sleep remained an impossibility.

As the dawn became actual morning, when our knees had lost sensation, our neck muscles forced into permanent spasm and our heads bruised from smashing into the metal wall, we reached our destination. The entire journey took 26 ½ hours, not exactly what one would describe as a reasonable amount of time to cover the not too great distance of 160 miles.

Uganda.  No, don´t worry, I am still in India, still high in the mountains here in Kalpa.  Although, I must admit that I do have this African nation on my mind.  But more about that in a moment. 

If you happen to be fond of remoteness, simplicity and experiencing what life was like before the internet, shopping malls and much else of modern civilization, Kalpa should be etched into your personal ´must-see´ list. 

Less than one thousand people call this area home, and most of those are scattered in the outerlying villages in the forest.  The village center is a paved intersection the size of a dentist´s office where four walking paths connect.  There are a couple of shops, selling nothing more than toothpaste, sacks of rice and near-rotten bananas.  The two ´restaurants´ are merely tiny wooden huts serving a most basic assortment of unappetizing soups, noodle dishes and inedible omelets that take over an hour to prepare.  Electricity is sporadic, spiders share your bed.  Steep, uphill hikes in the thin air are required to reach anywhere.  But that is all part of the appeal here, in placing oneself in an environment so unlike what your body and mind have become accustomed to during the course of your life.   

The local Kinnauri people, dressed in their traditional green velvet hats and thick woolen vests, are most hospitable.  They create a pleasant atmosphere, quite content with their simple existence in one of the most difficult to reach places in the world.  Their smiling faces are a unique shade of brown, almost a hint of purple that creates the beautiful effect of appearing dark and light skinned at the same time.  They are definitely mountain faces, worn from the cold wind and inhospitable terrain, but they are also happy faces, with soft light eyes and frequent laughter.   

A Tibetan Gompa, with colorful prayer flags flapping in the strong wind, sits above an exotic wooden Hindu temple in the oldest part of the village.  The dwellings are all made of piled stone and wooden beams, with rooftops of slate to hold in any warmth.  The Himalayas are always in sight, always reminding you of the grandeur of this planet.  Their massive presence  holds the power to make you feel so ridiculously small yet so unbelievably confident at the same time.  You want to prostrate under their magnificence and then climb to its highest peak. 

The main activity for visitors in Kalpa is doing nothing.  Although occasional walks along the  paths and narrow roads allow you to explore the pine forests and even more remote villages of the area.  Look below, over the straight edge of the road and you see the river thousands of feet below.  Look above and you not only see the snow line directly in front of you, but death-defyingly placed villages proud of the disbelief they create, ¨Ha ha, you can´t even fathom how we exist up here!¨   

By four in the afternoon, when the sun has vanished behind the mountains, the light breeze turns into a cold wind and the temperature drops considerably.  Noses start running, ears start aching and the body shivers, forcing us to return to our hotel room, bury ourselves under our four thick blankets and watch a movie on the only English-language television station we receive.  Tonight we watched ´The Last King of Scotland´. 

And here is where Uganda comes into play.  Oddly enough, we met two British fellows yesterday who had arrived into India from Uganda a couple of weeks ago.  They could do nothing else but recommend visiting this African nation, talking non-stop about its beauty and people.  And the ´The Last King of Scotland´?  Uganda…a country hardly mentioned during the past 31 years of my life has now suddenly appeared twice in two days, just at a time when I am trying to decide where to go next…hmmm….            

I know it has been a while. Plans changed and suddenly we found ourselves in the remote Himalayan village of Kalpa instead of the busy Punjabi captial city of Amritsar. Here´s what I wanted to say about a week ago…

Tonight I write from the village of Kalpa, located in the Kinnaur Valley of the Himalayas at a height of 9000 feet above sea level. I cannot say that I am disappointed with our decision to travel here. How can we complain? The above photo on the left was taken ten minutes after our arrival this evening, while sitting on the toilet in my bathroom. There is an even better view of the 19000 foot Mount Kinnaur-Kailash from my balcony, but this just might be the best bathroom view on the planet.

We had spent three days in Rishikesh last week, passing our time with dips in the frigid waters of the holy Ganges River, meeting a holy man who had renounced the material world after losing his wife and five sons in the tsunami, eating apple strudel and brown bread at the German Bakery, participating in the ritual of releasing small leaf baskets full of beautiful flowers into the river at sunset and waking up at 5am every morning to dozens of monkeys jumping on the tin roof of our guest house as they made their way from the forest into town.

On our final day we treated ourselves to one hour ayurvedic massages, in which the male masseuse seemed to particularly enjoy massaging my buttocks, spending what seemed like thirty minutes on that specific part of my body.

When we left Rishikesh we had absolutely no way of envisioning the thirty-six hour expedition that would follow. We traveled in four different buses; were delayed due to one busted engine, one flat tire and one landslide; spent a night in a room with the most foul smelling, nausea-inducing blankets; drank tea with a village judge; endured a temperature change from 100 to 50 degrees and an altitude change of 8700 feet; were forced to hitch hike and had time to eat only two meals.

The total distance traveled was a mere 273 miles, but it had to pieced together from town to town. In this aspect we were extraordinarily lucky, finding bus connections almost immediately upon arrival into every town. This further proved the undeniable fact that in India, you can get from anywhere to anywhere else at anytime, no matter what the geographical relationship between your origin and destination nor the time of day or night. Here are the segments of our trip into the mountains:

Rishikesh to Dehra Dun – 8am – 9:30am – distance of 22 miles – Easy ride, no complaints.

Dehra Dun to Chandigarh – 10am – 3:00pm – 78 miles – Hot, dusty, crowded and painful while sitting on an impossibly hard bench directly over the rear tires.

Chandigarh to Shimla – 3pm – 7:00pm – 48 miles – Incredible air-conditioned deluxe bus complete with Hindi movies, free bottles of water and complimentary ´sick bags´ for every passenger! Perfect for the slow meandering up the Himalayan foothills.

Shimla to Rekong Peo – 8am – 6pm – 120 miles – Although the official distance was 120 miles, the total distance on this leg was probably closer to 140 miles when one includes the distance traveled in reverse. As our standing room-only bus would zoom around blind corners in the ten foot wide semi-paved road chiseled out of the mighty Himalayas, we often met another bus or a truck coming in the opposite direction. Both vehicles would slam on their brakes and blast their horns, windshields ending up inches from each other, narrowly avoiding a head on collision. The mix of tribes people and Tibetan villagers (and of course the two of us!) would gasp as we would barely avoid, yet again, tumbling over the sheer cliff edge directly next to us and dropping thousands of feet to the valley floor. Sometimes our driver won the standoff and sometimes he lost, having to reverse a great distance until the other vehicle could pass. On one occasion our puny driver found himself in a fist fight with another driver in the middle of the road. He somehow emerged victorious despite his scrawny frame, forcing the other bus to reverse.

The bus desperately hugged the mountainsides, climbing and winding over mountain passes and descending into perfectly inspiring valleys at dizzying speeds, as tribal villages appeared in the most impossible locations. Huts and dwellings were dug into the sides of the mountains high above with no roads to reach them and no other signs of civilization in sight. A trip to the closest market would surely involve a multiple day hike. I would not want to be the person to eat the last apple or spill the milk on the floor.

When the first glimpse of the 12,000 – 18,000 foot range of Kinnaur-Kailash appeared on the horizon, the song ¨All the Roadrunning¨ coincidentally played on the mp3 player. It is the song by Mark Knoppfler and Emmylou Harris, the song that inspired this blog. And there I sat, 33 hours into the adventure, with my rear end destroyed from repeatedly bouncing up and down onto the thin plywood seat, my face covered in a thick layer of dust, my stomach furiously grumbling and my knees unable to straighten. I could not be happier as my eyes remained glued to the mind-numbing scenery on what is perhaps the most awe-inspiring bus journey in the world.

It is the heart of the great Himalayas, a magical but daunting land considered inhabitable only to the tribes people who have remained here for centuries. Traveling into this part of India is one of those experiences that cannot be understood without living through it yourself, as although painful and dangerous to reach, life-changing rewards await any traveler who chooses to enter this isolated region.

Rekong Peo to Kalpa – 6:30pm – 7pm – 5 miles – As the buses along this short route had finished operating for the day, we had to hitchhike to our final destination. However, the first car I flagged down turned out to be the Executive Magistrate of Kalpa, who not only drove us to his village, but also introduced us to his family, gave us a tour of his home and of the mini-court room located just off of his living room and kitchen.

And so that is how we ended up here.

But I must stop writing now, it is definitely time to sleep. My legs hurt. My shoulders hurt. My spine is twisted and my rear end has been bruised and beaten into mush. Although I know that the view and the pure silence and the fresh air will undoubtedly help heal the aches and pains, I will admit that the slightly uncomfortable buttocks massage in Rishikesh, would be a most welcome therapy tonight.