The Vagabonds

The Delhi dilemma was swiftly resolved as we finally fled from the depraved city the following day after our previous diary entry.
It was not that however.
At 20:00 on the night we posted our last entry, an employee for the company who we booked our tickets with, entered the apartment we were residing in and demanded us to pack our bags immediately.
We were being transferred to another abode.
Averse to this prospect, but complicit due to diffidence, we scurried around packing our belongings, bemused and confused, ready to leave within five minutes.
Unfortunately that atmosphere in the new apartment was hostile, but we hardily endured it for one night, as finally, we managed to leave Delhi the following morning.

The flight to Srinagar was merely sixty minutes long, but once our plane landed on the tarnished tarmac, it was palpable that we were now somewhere distinctly different to Delhi.
Most notably, we were in Kashmir.
When we were still in the comfortable confines of Manchester, we whimsically joked about visiting this notoriously volatile region of India. People had been shot by bullets and obliterated by bombs here – recently – and furthermore, this was a regular occurrence. Even the ‘Lonely Planet’ guidebook to India sternly warned visitors about the possibility of witnessing – or becoming a victim of – an indiscriminate bomb attack. Somebody we subsequently met in Amritsar averred how he wanted to Visit Srinagar too, but his insurance policy explicitly stated that if he did, it would immediately become nullified.
And so forth.

As we were being driven through the ruddy streets to our accommodation, the army presence was as ostentatious as a tiger in a cage full of cats. They had batons, rifles and guns, and were so pervasive that they formed part of the landscape. If soldiers were not stationed on the streets, they were driving vehicles, comprising more of the populace than ordinary citizens.
Fortuitously however, we were residing in a boathouse situated on Nigeen Lake, which faced the grandiose ‘Old Fort’ that overlooked the whole of Srinagar (and now, unsurprisingly, is an army base).
At night we navigated the vicinity, observing Dal Lake which surpassed Nigeen in both size and placidity with a colourful array of azure colours that shimmered in response to the setting sun. Compared to Delhi the local were amiable and forthcoming with grace and dignity; their smiles did not aim to swindle. Pepe even took a deep breath and boldly ate (by Jakey’s standards at least) local Kashmiri food purchased on the market that was wrapped in recycled newspaper. It was sweet and delectable; an amalgamation of barratha (a type of nan) with soft, sweet potatoes that possessed the texture of a warmly baked cake.
Jakey looked, smelt and decided that he could wait until dinner.

The following day we embarked on a trek up a nearby Himalayan mountain. Our entourage comprised of two sherpers (“Pony men”), two personal helpers and five horses.
The sixty minute drive to the base of the mountain entailed astute maneuvering through the narrow, winding roads that climbed above Srinagar. The tyres struggled to find traction on the rocky surface which, when combined with the speeds our reckless driver drove at, was a daunting experience.

The trek was marred with follies.

First, although we had paid for horses – which we subsequently discovered were actually pony’s – to carry us to the top of the mountain, in total, over the whole two days of trekking, we used them for no longer than two hours. Their weak and fragile bones could not sustain our weight. Particularly Jakey’s.
Second, after two of the horses had been stacked with bags and apparatus, we both clambered upon our respective ponies. Steadily climbing up the steep mountain, Jakey’s saddle slipped to the side after five minutes and off he fell, grazing his arms and legs.
Now he was scared, and it was only after observing Pepe ride his pony for a short while that he garnered the courage revisit his wild beast. This was, of course, before the ponies became too tired to carry us any further.
Third, we heedlessly only brought three bottles of water each to quench us during the trek. In retrospect, that alone, was insufficient. That our sherpers did not bring any water of their own and thus were required to share our diminutive supplies was a travesty. Jakey struggled to trek to the point of rest for the night, but, with whining indignation, he made it.

The view from where we pitched our tents however was daintily ethereal. Lofty clouds submerged over the interminable scope of cascading verdant mountains with remnants of frost that were dispersed wherever there was a crevice to conceal them from the pungent sun.
At night our sherpers cooked us a meal as we relaxed and recuperated our strength around a campfire.
It was bliss to be absolutely alone, especially after witnessing Delhi’s incessant locomotion.
As the sun set Jakey declared that he will “sleep like a baby”. Tired with both thirst and fatigue, we eventually resigned to our tent.
We woke the next morning wild and crazy with bloodshot pupils and baggy eyes; our sleep – if such a word can be used – totaled no more than ninety minutes.
Why?
Because of the storm.
Shortly after we had wrapped ourselves warmly in our sleeping bags, we heard a faint murmur in the distance. This was followed by a boisterous bellow.
And then it began.
The tent shook and the lightning struck throughout the remainder of the night. There was a perpetual clangor of vociferous rain striking our tent, as if frogs and not raindrops were falling from the sky.
Jakey was scared. So scared in fact that he decided to occupy Pepe’s sleeping space, rendering him unable to sleep even if could or wanted to despite the storm. And we were both shaking like fragile skeletons due to the chilly cold.

Nevertheless, determined to view a venerated lake on the mountains summit, we trekked onwards the next morning, after breakfast. Unfortunately, by now we only possessed two bottles of water – not each, but between us – to sustain us for the remainder of the day. Thus, we decided to take one bottle with us for this portion of the trek and save one for the climb back down the mountain.
We struggled.
The altitude began to affect us and our mouths were lingering onto every last drop of water. Some snow en-route momentarily hydrated us, but it did not suffice. Thus, too depleted to continue, we returned back to the tent without seeing the lake. After eating lunch, we climbed down the mountain.
Then, the conundrum emerged; we naively refrained from applying suncream that morning due to the overcast clouds.
Now we had sun-stroke.

What is the primary remedy to overcome sun-stroke?
Water.

But there was no water to be drunk.
Furthermore, even if there had been, our stomachs would have failed to absorb it.
Hence, conversely to the spectral beauty surrounding us, our trek back down was mitigated with abating anguish.
At least we made it though.

We decided to leave Srinagar the next day. Woefully, when we woke up 6:00am for our impending bus journey, our ailments had exacerbated. Droll details are unnecessary, but we can clarify with certainty that the journey was the antithesis of a gliding serenade through the mountains. Moreoever, delayed abounded the trip, prolonging it from the projected duration of eight hours to twelve.

Although we intended to reach McLeod Ganj (the town where the Tibetan People flocked into exhile) that night, after the aforementioned journey fraught with sickness, we decided to rest in Jammu.
Jammu was wholly mediocre, but we did not expect much else. It was disconcerting being situated so close to Islamabad – the capital of Pakistan – during their recent turmoil however.

Mcleod Ganj, when we finally reached it, was a town laden with dichotomy’s: there were narrow streets and harrowing car horns; serene moutainous surroundings and trite commercial shops; an abundance of tourists and Tibetan Monks. The atmosphere was harmonious however, with the days there passing by like a summer breeze.
Auspiciously, the day after we arrived was the revered Dalai Lama’s birthday. Consequently the shops shut but the frivolities were surprisingly restrained. We visited his temple, which, considering how permeated the Tibetan cause is in the Western media, was relatively humble. Also, the following day (and for the rest of the week too, but we had to leave to maintain our schedule), thousands of pilgrims converged on this holy site in the morning to seize the opportunity of witnessing the Dalai Lama teach Buddhist principles to the masses. We saw the figure himself, in person, from no further than ten metres away as we scrambled for a seat, but his wisdom surpassed us, primarily because we do not understand Tibetan.

Finally, where we are writing from now, we commuted to Amritsar. Here, the holiest site in the Sikh religion is situated in the eponymous Golden Temple.
The vicinity of the temple was surrounded by an artificial moat of fresh water (a rarity for India) which exuded an aura of simple serenity.
Thousands of bare feet encompassed us whilst we were there, as shoes were not permitted inside the temple.
Jakey, not wanting to give his sandals to the shoe depository outside, placed them in his bag instead.
He soon regretted that.
Once inside, a murky man angrily tapped him on the shoulder and directed him towards a guard who was standing tall, clutching a large sphere. The guard apprehended him, demanding to view the contents of his bag.
Poor Jakey feared for the worst. Could this be the end?
The hypercondria fortunately receded and reality triumphed though as we were simply ejected from the temple, being allowed to return once our shoes had been discarded.

That evening we travelled to the Pakistani border with two genial Brits named Alice and Matt who we met in our hotel. There we witnessed the dirunal frivolous fracas between Pakistan’s and India’s border guards, where each attempts to prove to the onlooking masses who has more pride, pomp and prestige through a syncronised embellished military ceremony.

Now we are waiting in an exasperatingly noisy bus station to transit south to Rajastan. John Cage could concoct a symphony using the eclectic array of different car horns and whistles that are being emitted outside.

Adios!

(Phew)

P.S. New photographs have been added to both the ‘Summer Photographs’ and ‘Flickr/Action Shots’ sections, although, we still have more to upload.

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