Epilogue: A Farewell to Sandals

"How can the mind take hold of such a country? Generations of invaders have tried, but they remain in exile. The important towns they build are only retreats, their quarrels the malaise of men who cannot find their way home. India knows of their trouble. She knows of the whole world's trouble, to its uttermost depth. She calls 'Come' through her hundred mouths, through objects ridiculous and august. But come to what? She has never defined. She is not a promise, only an appeal."
E.M. Forster


I had five more days to play with in Ladakh - what to do?

After the Markha Valley trek I indulged for a day in the vaguely modern conforts of Leh, Ladakh's only town - running water to wash with, a bed rather than a filthy mattress on a stone floor, mineral water rather than iodine-purified mountain stream water, and food that wasn't rice, dal and chapati (oh yes). Next day I took the bus to Likir, another few hours spent wedged against peasants carrying mini vegetable gardens in infinite paper bags (plastic bags are banned in Ladakh). They had all taken day trips to Leh to stock up on stuff they couldn't grow at home. Just after leaving Leh we stopped in a carpenters' yard and around twenty door frames were strapped to the roof. Loosely strapped, evidently - five minutes later they all slid off, just outside the Defence Ministry of High Altitude Research (whatever that may be), nearly decapitating a Ladakhi whose head was leant out the window. One piece splintered in two - oh dear, somebody's door would have to wait a while longer.

It is often said that Indian buses are the best place to bond with locals. Well, that probably has something to do with being shoved in an enclosed space with them for an extended period. They queue up to chat with you, though this 'chat' is usually the standard question and answer question session: "what is your country name; what is your home job; first time you going India?!" Though this happens less in Ladakh, where standards of English rarely exist. But occasionally the questioning develops into an amusing conversation. Weeks back on the bus the Shimla, a cheery local, on learning I was an English student, asked, "Good sir, are you good friend of Mr. William Shakespeare?" Why yes, I answered, I was "good friend" of Mr. William Shakespeare, and had he heard of my other pal, Mr. William Blake? He hadn't.

Likir was a one-yak town, but a one-yak town with a high school. A new development in Ladakh, where previously kids older than eleven had to go far from home to Srinigar or Delhi for further education, a move most Ladakhi families couldn't afford. There's a monstery a few miles up a gorge, the monks being of the Gelupka order (or Yellow Hat sect), a reformed school of Tibetan Buddhism formed in the fifteenth century, and the only order officially led by the Dalai Lama. The kushok in Likir is the present Dalai Lama's younger brother. The monastery is a great towering thing, fortlike from a distance, a reminder of a medieval era when Muslim invaders were ever at the gate, stroking their beards and scimitars, ready to loot and decapitate Buddha statues. But I was received by the monks as a friend and ally, being without a beard or scimitar. They showed me round the many chambers, one of which housed an intricate mandala sculpture inside a glass case. A mandala is a series of concentric circles, often with figures and other frilly bits added, and is an object of meditation as a model of the Universe. But a monk I questioned gave a more charming description: "mandala is best possible Buddha house."

Aside from this there was little else for me to in Likir but sit on my guest house veranda and watch peasants shuffle up and down wheat fields - something I was quite happy to do for half a day. Plus, my guest house was run by an exceptionally beautiful woman, as all guest houses should be - though sadly this is rarely the case. The cheapness by which one can live in this country never ceases to amaze and inspire me. If you're an idler avoiding employment, responsibility and life with a capital L, then look no further. In Likir I was paying 150 rupees (about £1.80) for my own room, plus all my meals besides lunch - a 40 rupee supplement. Score for me.

After a day of intense nothing, I set off next morning on the four hour walk to Yantang. I was joined by an earnest German couple with all the geeky trekking equipment money could buy - ski poles, walking boots you could lose a baby in, a drinking tube extending from the mouth to the depths of the rucksack, jackets that turn into inflatable lifeboats (okay, I made that last one up, but just you wait). This was bleak country, and when I mean bleak I mean BLEAK. No greenery, all rock. And at times it was like wading through a vast sandpit. Yantang came into view as a blob of precious green.

Yantang was another remote outpost, a day's walk from any motorable road. The clock rolled back to the middle ages - the peasants rose at sunrise, gathered crop or tended goats by day, and bedded down at sunset. I lodged at another homestay - not a guest house at all, just a family home where a corner in an upstairs room was cleared for me and a dirty mattress. During the day I sat at a low table in the dining room, watching the housewife chase her giggling kids around the house, before returning to the menial tasks that filled her day - moulding chapatis, churning milk, knitting clothes, and most importantly: endlessly serving me salted tea. No leisure time for these folk - the concept was meaningless. Sitting in a corner and reading a book never felt so decadent.

That evening was to be the wettest of my life. It all started as light rain at seven, but by eight things had gotten torrential. A storm had come, thunder, lighting, the works. Builders and architects are a recent incursion into Ladakh - traditionally the entire village would participate in building a home with the mud and stone to hand. But Ladakhis rarely take rain into account, this being one of the driest places on earth, and my homestay had gaping holes in the roof. The rain poured in, mixing with the mud that formed the roof to send down brown showers. Soon myself, my bag and all my belongings were drenched in muddy water. For nearly two hours I stood with a bucket under a particularly large hole in my bedroom, replacing it every minute and running out to slosh it over the balcony. But there simply weren't enough buckets - the entire house was raining, and dark water was pooling on every floor. There was nothing to do but wait and shiver, nowhere dry to run to and no dry clothes to change into - though the family eventually found me a vaguely dry jacket in some back room, which staved off pneumonia. But I was lucky to be under some kind of shelter - two young English chaps ran in at one point, having just escaped a landslide caused by the swelling of the river Wuleh, which had swept away their tent and all their gear, leaving one of the chaps shivering without shoes or warm clothes in just socks, light trousers and a T-shirt.

But even under these apocalyptic conditions (its not every day your house fills up with muddy water), the housewife managed to knock me up some rice and curried vegetables for dinner, plus some life-restoring tea. A remarkable woman - official winner of Best Housewife of the Year in the much vaunted Ben Dunant Awards. She even manged to find a dry corner of some room for me to curl up in for the night, my original bedroom now being a swamp. That said, the rest of my room still leaked, and I went to sleep to sound of "drip, splash, drip, splash," the room slowly filling up with water.

I awoke next day to a ruined house. It reminded me of the news footage of the recent New Orleans hurricane aftermath. The family quizzed me over breakfast on my plan for the day. "I'm going to head down the gorge to Rizong Monastery" - they emphatically repeated this was "no possible, no possible," without having the English to explain why. I arrogantly shrugged off their warnings and headed down the gorge anyway; it seemed unlikely that they'd actually checked the path themselves. But local wisdom proved true. I followed the path for a good twenty minutes and my hope rose. The soil erosion from last night's rain made the path crumble beneath my feat several times, sending me plunging down towards the Wuleh tokpo (river), though I managed to stall myself and scramble back up every time - yes, I was that good. But on I walked, untill I got to a point where the river had swollen to completely swallow the path, leaving only sheer rock faces either side of the water. So back I trod, and I tried an alternate route - walking for six hours to Temisgam. But the first stage invloved crossing the Wuleh topko just below Yantang, and the swollen river had completely smashed the bridge. There was nothing for it but to backtrack to Sumdo, halfway back to Likir, and from there I walked down a gorge to Saspol on the Leh-Srinigar highway, Ladakh's principal road. Next I pushed on to Alchi, but managed to hitch in a jeep to skip the ninety minute walk - and it was still drizzling. By that time I'd decided that I'd done quite enough walking for 2008.

Alchi monastery was built in the eleventh century, allegedly under the supervision of Rinchen Zangpo, the great translator, who spearheaded a great revival of Buddhism in Tibet and neighbouring lands known as The Second Spreading. He's literally a saint, and an impossible number of monasteries claim to be founded by him, though Alchi Gompa is believed to be the real deal. It's decorated in the Kashmiri rather than the Tibetan tradition, highly unusual for Ladakh, and its murals, still brightly coloured, betray a closer relation to the Hinduism from which Buddhism emerged. There were once many more such Kashmiri style monasteries in Ladakh, but these were largely destroyed by Muslim invaders from Balistan or the Kashmir Valley (don't you just love those guys). Indeed, there are few Gompas now in Ladakh that predate the invasion in the early seventeenth century of Ali Mir and his horde from Balistan. That Alchi Gompa was spared no doubt has much to do with its location, tucked discreetly down by a river rather than towering on one of the ridges favoured by most monasteries.

I took the three hour bus ride back to Leh that evening - another human sandwich. When I returned a Free Tibet march was threading the streets, that being the night of the Olympic opening ceremony in Beijing. A line of Ladakhis sheltering candles in glass jars was weaving its way to Leh's central gompa. It was a beautiful sight in the dark of the evening, utterly peaceful, and many of the armed Ladakhi soldiers keeping watch quietly joined in with the chanting of Buddhist mantras. They eventually all gathered in the courtyard outside the gompa, and speeches were made and quiet applause given. Apparently this was all in defiance of a curfew, but the soldiers obviously saw little trouble in the quiet proceedings. The Ladakhis of course have strong historical and religious links with Tibet, and Leh now shelters many Tibetan rufugees. Unsurprisingly, anti-Chinese sentiment is rife. It's spelt out in the graffiti around Leh, and a poster in the main market that read "Beijing will be the worst Olympic venue in history" was not taken down by the police for the whole month I spent in Ladakh. But then India and China have never been the best of chums.

The night before my flight was sleepless, as the rain and thunder spelt out my worst fears. Flights from Leh are often cancelled due to poor weather, and missing this flight meant I would miss my flight home in two days time - it's thirty-eight hours of continuous bus travel from Leh to Delhi (as opposed to 75 minutes by plane ), not that continuous travel is even possible, meaning you'd have to allow at least three days. But after waking up my panic rose for another reason: the taxi driver wasn't there at his alloted time, 4.30am - five minutes went by, then ten, then fifteen, then thirty. I thundered on the bedroom door of the guest house owner, who then walked down with me and thundered on the door of the room right next to mine, where it turned out my taxi driver was oversleeping. He seemed to think it was hilarious that I was running late, and I greatly enjoyed shouting at him. On the way he assured me with undisguised glee that my flight would definately be cancelled. It certainly looked like it, the sky still black and bruised.

Jammu and Kashmir state has an (understandable) zeal for security, and Leh airport is not untouched. The searching is vigorous - I was felt all over - and after checking in your bag you're later asked to walk on to the tarmac to identify your bag before it can be loaded on the plane. It was a long, fidgety wait at the departure gate. My plane was circling above Leh for two hours, unable to land for the cloud cover. And the plane of another airline, due to arrive just half an hour after mine, was diverted back to Delhi - there seemed no reason why mine shouldn't also. There was actually a cheer as the announcement came: "the Air Deccan flight is now ready for boarding." Honestly, it was this close to being cancelled (the author is holding his thumb and forefinger very close together).

To arrive back in Delhi (just a bump above sea level) from 3500 metres was like being dunked in a warm bath. The air felt used and the smog blurred disitances. I wasn't used to the traffic, and on stepping off the airport bus in Connaught Place I was instantly hit by a scooter. I toppled over and the rider came off his bike, though neither of us was hurt, thankfully - it would have been pretty dire otherwise, what with me being in the middle of Delhi on my own with all my stuff on my back. Afterwards I once again had the pleasure of room-searching in the Paharganj area, which is rather like fishing for left-over food in a sewer. I settled on the less-than-palatial Radhjani Palace. I was shown a number a rooms, but it took a while to find one that didn't spell instant death - on checking out the first room I flicked on the bathroom light, causing a minor explosion. I eventually settled on a nice little room where a cooling system made the noise of a minor aircraft engine. A tranquil night awaited me.

That day I wondered around New Delhi in a daze, fending off ear cleaners and shoe repair men who homed in on my wrecked walking boots. I bought a trunk load of cheap clothes in an underground market, practicing my by now formidable bargaining skills. And that was really about it for that day. The next morning I arrived at Khan Market promptly before ten to meet a certain Vijay Vikram, a fellow St Andrews student and current Delhi-wallah of a highly questionable nationalist political bent. But he was held up for two hours by a bandh (strike) or BJP youth rally - I forget which - near where he lived. Khan Market is an upmarket retail enclave where the westernized Delhi elite can enjoy their cappuccinos or Subways before browsing The Body Shop, Prada and other western retail imports. It was fun to see them in their element.

Afterwards Vijay and I perused the Purana Quila, a sixteenth century Mughal fort allegedly built on the site of the legendary Indraprastha, the capital of the Aryans of 1000BC, immortalised in the great Hindu epic The Mahabharata. The Purana was part of Emperor Humayan's capital, labelled the sixth city of Delhi - historians now consider Delhi a grand pile-up of different historical cities, the British New Delhi being the eigth, Indraprastha the first. It's one of the 'Great Sites' of Delhi but there's little left to the Purana Quila now but a pretty mosque, and the experience was a damp one, literally - the sky truly opened as we entered the gates. The monsoon was not over, yet.

After some aimless wandering we strolled up Rajpath, the grand imperial roadway with India Gate at one end and at the other the exquisite, Edward Lutyens designed Rashtrapati Bhavan, built as the residency of the viceroy but now the home of India's (largley ceremonial) President, the dear old lady Smt. Pratibha Devisingh Patil, whose job it is to have tea all day with important sounding people - rather like our Queen. However, there is no hiding the imperial rhetoric of Lutyens architecture, and one inscription over a large archway reads in sturdy capitals: LIBERTY WILL NOT DESCEND TO A PEOPLE; A PEOPLE MUST RAISE THEMSELVES TO LIBERTY; IT IS A BLESSING WHICH MUST BE EARNED BEFORE IT CAN BE ENJOYED. It's a disturbing sight in modern India, and anyone who still believes in the inherent benevolence of the British Raj should be stood in front of it.

Vijay and I capped off a wonderfully laguid day - yes, contrary to backpacker mythology, it is possible to have a relaxing time in Delhi - with a visit to the Gymkhana club, a colonial relic, a beautiful white bungalow with an imaculate lawn. Formerly Indians weren't allowed to join, and a club joke runs that a sign once read 'Strictly no Indians or Dogs.' Inside are the furnishings you'd expect - chandeliers, portraits of former colonial patrons (plus one of King George V), oak armchairs and polished wooden floors. Attached was the 'Lady Willingdon Swimming Club' - it was almost too good to be true. But like any former colonial club, it was an attempt to keep India at bay, to escape to land far far away, a land which never really existed. Leaving its gates I had the impression of re-entering India. And it was then that I bade a sad farewell to Vijay and India, and rickshawed back to Paharganj to gather my things and head to Indira Gandhi Airport.

The Indians' Edwardian handling of the English language (where "just bung you coat down there" and "what is your good name?" are common phrases) flourishes in the strangest of places. For instance, a woman announced through the airport speakers that a Mr. Somethingrather was holding a plane up, and she implored that this Mr. Somethingrather proceed through security "in a jiffy." Yes, my ears did not deceive me. But that was all the interest my journey home afforded. Everything went seamlessly and Heathrow loomed before I knew it. The cool air was welcoming - honestly, say what you like about the British weather, but compared to the Indian plains we live in a luxurious climate. Just you try Delhi in June.

It's nice to be back in London. But then it's always nice to be back in London. To walk again among familiar objects, if not familiar faces. But something bothered me at first, something missing from day-to-day interactions. It was that quality of difference, which comes to define you as a traveller, born in the manner locals acknowledge you, in lingering stares and earnest questioning. To arrive home is to be lost in the crowd. You are no longer that exotic specimen, the representative of a brighter world where money trickles from sky-scrapers and death happens only very nicely. It is to become distressingly ordinary.

I will return to India, many times. I know it for sure. But what is it that calls me back? I'll put it down to a dark fascination - yes, that sounds suitably profound. India is a puzzle that only deepens, its cultural layers ever-receding. I've learnt a great deal, but I feel little closer to understanding India and Indians. Perhaps I never shall, but I'm happy to keep on chasing a ghost. I am fond of India, but there is so much that disturbs me, things beyond the obvious, the more disquieting for being beyond language. It would be wrong to say that I love India - that would imply an intimacy I cannot share. More than anything, travel - especially solo travel - teaches you quite how much you are a product of your own culture, ultimately irreconcilable to the visited culture. That is the point: you play the role of the visitor; the country is to be visited, not lived in. The pyjama clad hippies that still clutter India kid themselves they have an intimacy. But they stop short where the Hindu starts - they do not share his belief that desperation is the simple lot of man and that the world is a cruel illusion. Buddhism shares this nihilism - "all life is suffering," teaches the Buddha. These are philosophies of defeat, of retreat into a cosy darkness. While the Christian or Muslim conceives heaven as a Kingdom of Light, Nirvana is simply oblivion. Above all Eastern religions teach a calm acceptance of the world - it is their goal. For me this is too much like death. It is as if the Human Spirit - which should never 'accept' the world and always seek to shape it - has thrown in the towel.

I am not an Indian, I am an Englishman. But I shall once again be an Englishman in India.

Ben Dunant
(India 27th June-14th August 2008)