A Disfunctional Diary of India - A full day in Kibber: Day 29

I woke up this morning and realized that almost every dollar I have to my name is in a soft leather wallet in my back pocket. Come to think of it, they aren't even dollars, they're rupees. About 10,000 of em' to be exact, and no major assets or possessions except for my video camera, which was cheap as chips, and my Mac, which I left in Thailand. Nearly everything I brought out to South East Asia over 20 months ago, I've left behind or sold at the Sunday night market. I haven't changed my clothes in well over a week (for Jon I think, it's been longer).  I brush my teeth, wash my face and exercise my mind everyday. I obviously haven't shaved. My skin is dark, my hands are calloused and my back is sore. But this, what I'm doing with my life right now, it's my favorite thing to do. It's a labor of love with no payment. And if you think traveling is not a labor than you should stay at the 5 star commercial resort where you belong. It's not about a new stamp in the passport anymore, it's about the life changing moments of culture shock, the unfathomable inspiration, the long distance friendships that survive on the memory of a few hours in a place you'll never be again. It's the academics of the world.

When I walk outside and absorb my surroundings, it's all I need. Regrettably, I know this feeling will pass, despite my efforts to keep it alive. For now though, money and material things don't hold the value of a sunset or an honest act, or a clear, open road. I'm both proud and a bit worried that when I do return to a Western style of living, that it won't make as much sense to me. There's a huge difference between physical happiness and spiritual happiness. The latter being more elusive. Most of us live in a state of physical happiness, and right now, at this moment, I'm not so sure that's for me. But damn, how fast things can change....

Some other things happened today too.

We gave the bikes a rest and spent the late morning cooking n' writing in the sun, out on Dorje's 12'x15' patch of grass. We hiked up to a plateau at about 4,600 meters, overlooking the village of Kibber and revealing another secluded village off in the distance. We had heard that there was a cable car that ran across to it so we set off in that direction. On the way we ran into a pack of local kids demanding chocolate. I gave em' the last of my candy and they hung out with us for a while, talking our ears off in a mix of English and Spiti dialect. It was almost 3:00pm when we found the cable car. The walk was longer than expected, on a dusty desert road. So much space around us- made me feel like a field mouse. Dorje had told us that the cable car was free and only took 5 minutes to cross the canyon. When we saw the bloody contraption we understood why it was free, but had a hard time believing that such a thing was used on a daily basis. The cable car was a metal basket rigged up as a pulley system that hung on a heavy chairlift wire. It was not electric. Once inside the basket, the single passenger had to manually pull themselves across to the other side using a guide rope.

Jon n' I sat down on the rocks and scratched our heads while applying the classic convincing conversation tactics that cause us to do the crazy things we do. If Matty Munro was there we would've been over that canyon and back by now, but the jam just wasn't in us today. No jam.

Before we walked away from it we were met by an Israeli named Eli, who was also astonished by the sight of the cable car. He sat down and pulled a violin out of his ass and played a glorious symphony tune. It set a pretty high bar for the most random moments I've experienced. We left him, still undecided about trying the cable car, and walked back to the village. About 2 hours later he strolled into Dorje's yard with the same chocolate mongering kids following him. We all went out onto the road and played with them until we heard the hurd of cows, yaks, sheep, goats and donkeys all being led back to the village for the night. It was an amazing scene as we watched the small population of villagers, both young and old, running to gather at the entrance road to help round up the slow stampede. This was totally everybody's favorite part of the day. Jon n' I joined in, running around with the animals shouting “Hyah!” Jon was even able to get on a donkey, which ran him up a set of stairs and then bucked him off. Smart ass. After all that excitement it was dinner time. One of the trigger reasons we were staying another night in Kibber was so we could try Dorje's momos. He told us they were special and that's all it took to convince us. They definitely were the best I've had. Best chili sauce too. I got the recipes for both. Afterwards we smoked charras with Eli and brushed our teeth under a fat, full moon.

Update: The website for the Serkong Kibber Homestay is up. 

Read Day 30

A Disfunctional Diary of India - Kaza to Kibber: Day 28

Porridge and melba toast for breakfast. Followed by a stop at the Mechanic's for a new clutch handle and then we were up n' away, ascending out of the Spiti Valley towards Losar. The state of Himachal Pradesh can be navigated in a convenient circuit during a generous period of time that begins in early June and runs favourable road conditions as late as November. But this was the mid-month of May however, which left it a guessing game for road authorities and tenacious riders alike. There was no telling how far the road would go and/or if the Rhotung Pass that connects the Spiti Valley (where we were) to the Kullu Valley (where we wanted to go) was open or closed. In the tradition of Vagrant Optimism we asked check point officials what the status of the road to Kullu was whenever we could. They all said the same thing: “You won't get much farther than Losar.” So there was, of course, a personal challenge issued and a good looking day to do it in. We hit Losar in no time and rode right past it with balls-out mentality. If we could make it through the Rhotung Pass (which in Tibetan means the pile of corpses) than we had a shot at making it all the way to Kullu and Manali. If we didn't make it, we would either meet our demise to whatever the hell was obstructing the road, or we would have to turn around and drive all the way back the way we came.

It was most definitely the hairiest part of our journey. The road was a series of narrow, hair-pin turns going up an unpaved, rocky terrain. We climbed above 3000 meters in first gear and found ourselves riding with heavy snow on either side of us. It was a bitter cold, but the sun was out, melting the snow into streams of water ran down from the mountains in puddles beyond pools in the middle of our path. We rode through them with our feet up on the leg guards of our bikes and took our time to navigate every obstacle and turn while the road got relentlessly muddier and more challenging. “If one of these ladies (bikes) goes down, we're surely fucked.” I thought out loud. And with that we reached a formidable patch of snow that completely blanketed the road. We could go no further. It was a soft-serve ice cream mix of chocolate and vanilla – relief and disappointment. Lick it up and turn back.

We paused at a majestic summit point to take photos and were about to sit down and make lunch when Jon noticed the dark clouds moving in on us, almost at eye level. It didn't take us too long to get back on the main road that would lead us to Kibber, where we would spend the night. A little outside of Kaza we were waved down by a small group of workers on the side of the road. They invited us for a fresh made pot of chai, so we pulled over and brought some melba toast to our side-o-the-road sit down. We made some hilarious small talk and took some photos, then carried on to Kibber. The road that led us into the village provided a heavenly view as it opened up to a panoramic of colorful mountains and deep gorges that held on to the hands of the sun and guided it gently down.

At the recommendation of Jamaica, Jon sought out the Serkong home-stay while I cruised around the village handing out hard candy that I had left in my pockets. The owner of the home-stay was a warm hearted fellow named Dorje. He was a good friend of Jamaica's and invited us into his carpeted kitchen where we drank tea and dried our cold, wet feet by the small stove in the centre of the room. We ate a solid, home cooked meal of Dal and curd on rice and then retired easily from such a challenging day.

Read Day 29

A Disfunctional Diary of India - Nako to Kaza: Day 27

It's now been five days on the road and we've become familiar enough with our bikes to give em' proper names. "Laura Jean" (a tribute to both my grandmothers) is black with tarnished chrome. She's been good to me up until today when I dumped it while taking a corner on a sandy patch of desert style road. My first wipeout. Call me crazy but it felt pretty good. I know it must've looked pretty funny because I did a couple of speed wobbles before the bike skidded out from under me and I went off the side like I was sliding into second base. Safe! But with a bruised ass. I got up and dusted myself off, bummed that Jon had missed it. He was ahead of me.
Jon's bike, "Golden Macenzie" is a burgundy wildthing that's already had a couple crosses to bear. Added to the bent foot peg and shifter are the back breaks which seized up on him today, leaving him no choice but to break with the front, which any avid motorcyclist can tell you is pretty deadly. But no one told us and so Jon dumped it hard while crossing a small creek. That's when the clutch handle broke off. We tied it back on with rope and surprisingly everything's been alright since then.
We arrived in Kaza and met a Punjabi dude that went by the name 'Jamaica'. We had heard about him through another rider we met during our second day.  Jamaica was a fast talking, hyper-active business man with the air of a street hustler. He was hard to read as honest at first. He owned 2 guest houses and a restaurant in the small town, and of course everybody knew him. He gave us a nice room with a TV that we didn't even turn on for 300 rupees (under $6.00). In the evening we went for tea at his restaurant, which was simply a big room full of soft mattresses to lounge with small bench tables to eat off of. It was my idea of what a half ass opium den would look like, which prompted me to ask him if he knew where we could get some. No. We relaxed and watched a cricked match on the tele while conversing with two other Canadians (the only other people in the restaurant). They had been trekking around the Spiti Valley for nearly a week and had a lot to say. Jamaica sat down with us to show pictures and tell stories of others like us who had felt the northern touch of India. By the end of the night I knew Jamaica was a sincere cat. We returned to our guest house, smoked charas and packed smaller bags for the next day's exploration of Kibber, a village that was once the highest drivable village in the world, until the town of Comic got a road. 

Read Day 28

A Disfunctional Diary of India - Reckong Peo to Nako: Day 26

Today was the best ride yet in terms of scenery and road quality.  I saw landscapes that I never could've imagined in my dreams and that the camera could never truly justify. We cruised 119km with no stops for food or drink, only photos n' deep breaths. Our plan to camp out was compromised again when we hit Nako and found a family home-stay house that we couldn't turn down. Two big beds, a couch n' chairs with a table and beautiful backyard with a view of the rich fields enfolding sunny spots of greenery. I walked around the friendly village and sat in on an intense card game being played by the elders in front of a shop. They would slap the cards down on the pavement like bombs and I was almost convinced that was the main objective of the game. When I came back to the home-stay Jon was cooking soup on the pocket stove. I love these kinds of meals... set up on an old wooden table, chopping vegetables with pocket knives, making open faced sandwiches while playing catch with a joint and a mixed bottle of whiskey. We're very good at that. The rest was easy- Jon took a power nap and I read and passed out on the couch.

Read Day 27

A Disfunctional Diary of India - Sarahan to Reckong Peo: Day 25

I love waking up to music. It's a rare occasion when one gets to wake up to the sound of live music, but that was the case today when there was a wedding parade walking through the streets. The sound came drifting through the dorm window like the smell of a fresh baked pie is known to do. I kicked myself out of my cocoon and hurried outside to capture the procession. It was 9:30am. Afterwards we went back to the Nepalize kitchen  for breakfast and purchased some instant noodles and hard candy for later on down the road we'd be cooking for ourselves. As we prepared to depart from the temple we watched as a man carried a goat up the stairs to the ceremonial area where strict entry rules were inforced (no shoes, no leather, must wear a special hat to enter). We later learned that human sacrifices had been a performed at that temple up to the 18th century.
We spent a good portion of the day riding through a giant quarry with the Spiti river weaving alongside of it. It was a challenging road- dusty and unpaved with vicious shaped rocks on either side. Jon caught the left side of his bike on one which devoured his kickstand and bent the shifter in a cloud of dirt. While we were pulled over the Americans in the jeep rolled up and gave us a pack of cookies for our slight misfortune. They were soft n' melted and reminded me of lunchtime at Jeff Darlings house. Not long after we got out of the quarry Jon got a flat tire, just 8km outside of Reckong Peo. I rode onward to find a one eyed mechanic at small, side o' the road shop. I brought him back to Jon's bike and he had it fixed in minutes. When we got to Reckong Peo we stopped for vegetables and booze, hoping to find a spot in the woods where we could camp out and save some money on accommodation. That's when the thunder spoke and advised us to pay for shelter. By the time we found a reasonable guest house we were pretty wet and I had lost one bag of vegetables off the back of my bike. So much for boiled potatoes. We put on some tunes, made sandwiches and smoked charas as we plotted our route and destinations for the next 4 days.

Read Day 26

A Disfunctional Diary of India - Chandigarh to Sarahan: Day 24

Essentially today was our first full day on the road and we wanted to make the most of it, so we were up at 4:30AM, bright eyed, bushy bearded  and ready to jam on a lengthy 300km ride to Sarahan. It went from good to great as we slowly abandoned the wide highway and began cruising on the narrow but promising path to the great wide open. No more big cities. No more touts. No schedules or bookings or tickets. All unwanted horse-shit from here on in would be run over by two wheels of freedom and left in the dust. And so we rode. Up, way up, into the mountains - over, under and through a photo album of peaks n' valleys until we arrived at the edge of Sarahan and looked down at a unique temple that towered as the focal point of the village. It was divided into two parts. One built in the 12 century and and one in the 1920's. As we rode in we were greeted by waves and high fives from the children playing on the street. We were waved onward to the temple where we parked and entered to find beds inside a large dorm for only 50 Rupees. It was nearly 6:00pm and we were beat from over twelve hours in motion, but the village and it's amazing view were calling us out for a walk. We ate a big bowl of soup and the best momos yet at a small kitchen run by an old Nepalize couple. Then we smoked and watched the sun disappear behind the mountains. I had a talkative buzz from the charas so I struck up a conversation with a knowledgeable fellow from Mumbai. He explained the game of Cricket to me in full detail as we watched a game on T.V. in a cantina. A very well spoken lad, he was. I believe his name was Agee.
Right before I hit the bed a group of Americans showed up at the dorm. They were traveling by Jeep on a similar path than us. That's about all I learned about them. I was tired and talked out, but not ready to sleep so I stayed up to write this. 

A Disfunctional Diary of India - New Delhi to Chandigarh: Day 24

I haven't been this stoked and butterflied about something since I went skydiving. But skydiving was a matter of minutes n' seconds. This is 20 days of serious riding on high performance machinery. Lots of opportunity to fuck up huge. Our plan was to get the bikes early and be out of town before Monday morning traffic could swallow us, but because we got next to nothing accomplished yesterday we didn't get to Tony's bike shop until 2:00 in the afternoon, and then we had to hire a tuk-tuk to lead us out of the hectic city, which should have taken about ten minutes but took us over an hour because I stalled my bike on a turn and we lost the sneaky bugger. I've never been a religious man but before I even started the bike up I said a quick prayer to my Mom, the Sun, Buddha, Chris Farley, Ginesh and God. Although I only believe in a few of those names I felt I had to cover all the bases. I was relieved once we finally got on the highway and I felt pretty comfortable on the Enfield but still not 100% with shifting in stop n' go situations. I stalled the bike about 5 times today. We stopped in Chandigarh when it got dark and tried not to lose our minds looking for a cheap place to stay. We had driven 268km and were tired and very hungry. The cheapest place was the Vikrant Hotel for 650 Rupees ( about $14.00, which would be the most expensive lodging we would pay for during the whole trip). This motivated us to treat ourselves to a classy meal at a somewhat classy restaurant. We walked in to Sindhi Sweets and sat down to realize how haggard we were in appearance compared to the families eating near us. I still dream about the food there sometimes.
Once back at our hotel we smoked charas out by our bikes until the police rolled up to say hello and goodnight. And that's what we did.

Read Day 25

A Disfunctional Diary of India - New Delhi: Day 23

Another Sunday.
I remember back in the days I lived in Byron town when Jon and I would go for a drive and smoke a cigar every other Sunday to talk about life and what we were doing with it. Now, so many years later here in India we've begun to refer to Sundays as 'bad days' because everything we need (money & good help) is out of commission. The morning was a hot headache. The positives didn't come until the afternoon when we sealed the deal on our bikes and I passed the biggest test I've had since graduating film school. Then we bought 2 brand new helmets and 5 grams of quality charas to keep our brains safe and enriched while out on the road. That night we tried the charas in quiet celebration out on the balcony of the Namaskar Hotel and then I went to write about it and found myself entangled in a conversation with a veterinarian from Valencia who sounded and acted like Penelope Cruz. She wanted me to come to Pushkar with  her to help out at an animal hospital, but I was all too happy to decline and tell her my own plans. Fuck I was proud. I just hope I don't drive my ass off a cliff. 

Read Day 24

A Disfunctional Diary of India - On the Train (Part 2): Day 22

I didn't sleep very long but I slept well. We thought we were closing in on the end of our 26 hour train ride but we haven't been in this country long enough to realize that trains, like everything else, travel on their own time at it's own speed. This morning my special Indian muse lady bought Jon n' I tea and samosas and finally started talking, but only in Hindi. I figured out what I liked so much about her; She had a bigger heart and an older soul than all of us put together. Towards the last length of the ride she invited me to play a game with her and her husband. It was a simple old  game using 5 rocks that had been collected during one of the stops in the middle of nowhere. A schoolyard game of  hand-eye coordination that she was quite good at and I was surprisingly brutal and embarrassed about. By the time the train rolled into the station I was in proud admiration of them both. I don't know any better way to say it. She shook my hand to say goodbye and then laid her hands on my messy head and said a blessing. And that was it. Back to the reality of another big city - New Delhi.
Jon n' I broke free of the malarkey, determined to find our way to Paharganj district by any means necessary. At the advice of the Russian/German couple we went to the Namaskar Hotel, rented a room, dropped our bags off and took the metro to Tony's Bike Shop to rent 2 Royal Enfield motorcycles for our journey north. We grabbed some Gatorade on the way which helped us get through the paperwork faster. Then we arranged to meet the next day for a crash course with Tony's mechanics. That night I spent an hour on the internet, reading and watching videos of how to ride a proper motorbike.

Read Day 23

A Disfunctional Diary of India - On the Train: Day 21

We stepped on board an already crowded train and had to boot two meat heads who were sleeping in our seats. As soon as I sat down I met the eyes of a beautiful Indian woman wearing a traditional shawl with colors that matched her perfect complexion and eyes. Her beauty was not rooted in her appearance, but more-so in her movement. The woman had kinetic energy. We exchanged smiles, sitting across from each other and after that I found it hard to look away. I had to know more about her and I knew that I would slowly learn without ever asking a question. Every move she made opened another page of her story and for the first time in many years I felt confidently intuitive enough to believe what I was seeing correctly. She was in her early thirties and had never bore a child. She had the tough hands and dark skin of a hard worker, yet a delicateness remained on her face as if she'd been spoiled by a certain wealth, something beyond money. It was obvious that she had been and probably still was adored by many men. She had the strength of experience in her facial expressions, but when she looked into my eyes for a second time I saw the innocent curiosity. She had never been with a white guy before. I hadn't really noticed her husband lounged out and unaware beside her until she started to study my features and then compare them to his. She glanced at my arms n' legs and then felt his. She looked at my unkempt hair and then ran her fingers through his. I was fascinated by her fascination. Some time went by and I fell asleep in my middle bunk, feeling a rare connection to a woman I had no business or desire for. When I woke up from the nap she was watching me. She had changed into a dance of autumn colored sairees and sashes. We still hadn't spoken a word to each other. I read for a while and then began writing about her. She and her husband started talking about me in Hindi language. I knew. They took a picture of me and I wondered if they knew I was writing about them. Damn it was a long ass train ride. I guess when you spend this much time with total strangers of glaringly different cultures, this kind of interesting shit can happen.

Read Day 22