Milam on my Mind

MILAM ON MY MIND

Ajit Chaudhuri – November 2018

What’s the difference between the ‘beautiful’ and the ‘sublime’? They say that beautiful objects are smooth, polished, and comparatively small, whereas sublime objects are vast, rugged, powerful, magnificent. They are ideas of a different nature; beauty being founded on pleasure, and sublimity being founded on pain. I was reminded of this difference during a recent trek, following the Ghori river to its origins in Milam Glacier. There was nothing beautiful about it – it was tough, unforgiving, cold, long, and a pure and unadulterated test of endurance – none of it a pleasant walk through mountains with a river on one side and forests with snow-clad peaks above them on the other interspersed with nights around a camp fire and a flute and guitar combination in the background (as Internet descriptions implied). There was plenty that was sublime, though, in following a rough and angry Himalayan river through its gorges and its sudden openings into wide windswept valleys right up to its beginnings under the ice in the eastern side of the Nanda Devi, where China, Nepal and Uttarakhand merge.

Let me begin at the very beginning which, as the old song suggests, is a very good place to begin by taking you back to events in April and May 1986. I was teaching at a school in Ajmer which had a tradition of senior boys and teachers spending a part of summer doing some form of adventure activity (this was before such activities were subcontracted out to specialized private agencies, as is the case now). I joined a group of class IXs and two other teachers on a trek to Milam Glacier – the teachers were among my ‘gurus’; Mr. Ramesh Shah, an ex-Ranji cricketer with a reputation for strictness, much loved especially by the alumni who had begun to see the value of his approach to life, and the younger and cooler English teacher Mr. Gene Lee. The trip began with an overnight journey from Delhi to Almora on a bus during which the conductor, an MA in English, tried to convince Mr. Lee that he would be better off as a UP Roadways conductor than as a teacher. The group reached Almora and caught another bus onward to Munsiyari, the taluka town that was the road head for the trek.

The Boys, Mr. Shah (in forefront) and Self (right, shirtless) back in 1986

I still remember that bus journey – all the way down to Thal, and then up and across the Ratapani Pass that brought with it a stunning first view of the Panchul, five snow-capped 20,000-foot plus mountains that overlooked Munsiyari town. The next thing that happened was not so pleasant; the sub-divisional magistrate (SDM) in Munsiyari who was to sign our inner-line permits refused to do so, citing snow and ice (it was still early in the year) and the general unsuitability of the trekking route for children, and we turned around, caught a bus the next day to Bageshwar, and trekked to Pindari Glacier instead. And I swore that I would, one day, return to Munsiyari and do this trek!

Self, Gene Lee and Chandraveer Rathore near Pindari Glacier in 1986

In the 32 years that have passed, I have returned to Munsiyari many times and done many treks, but Milam Glacier has remained on my bucket list. And so, when my trek group’s main enthusiast suggested this one for October/November 2018, I jumped at it.

Milam is not on most trekkers’ must-do list and, now that I am back in the safe confines of my home in Mumbai, I see why. One, it is eight days from road head to road head – a long trek with seven consecutive nights in tents. Two, it is a two-day journey from railhead (Kathgodam) to road head, meaning that if one is from Mumbai one starts the trek only on day 4 of one’s travels and returns on day 13 – a long time to be away. Three, it is not a pretty trek – as mentioned, it is sublime rather than beautiful. The walking itself is from morning to evening with no pleasant resting spots along the way, and the route is tough with lots of ups and downs (the pleasanter route with sections along the river got washed away in the 2013 flash floods). In fact, the only section that felt like a trek and not a forced march was the 13 km from Milam village to the glacier and back. And four, it is seriously cold, especially when one is over 3,000 meters in altitude (which is almost half the trek), more so in end-October when we were there (we were the last group in). Many was the time we questioned what the hell we were doing.

The man himself!

And yet, in retrospect, none of us would have changed the plans. Four of us did it; a retired infantry Colonel who joked that he was a laughing stock among his peers for paying money to do in his old age what he had spent his life being paid to do, walking up and down mountains (he had even commanded a battalion at Siachen), another ex-Army (but not infantry) guy who was on his first trek, and my wife and I who in our mid-50s were the youngest in the group. We became close friends in the process, swearing that we would never do something like this again (all the while knowing that we would, just as we had done for the past three years), that the next one would be with us based in a place with a hotel, beds, a toilet and running hot water, with daily walks to pleasant locations and picnic lunches accompanying us, something we could bring our wives to.

Mrs. and Mr. Chaudhuri on 30th October 2018

We were joined until Milam by a group of Bengalis from the Mountaineering Club of Krishnanagore, untypical in that they were tall, tough, quiet and well behaved, who stayed on to also trek to the eastern base camp of the Nanda Devi. We made particular friends with the tallest, toughest and quietest among them, a primary school teacher called Viking-da (not ‘Biking’, not ‘Hiking’, but ‘Bhiking’, he said in his Bengali accent, after the spacecraft that was in the news when he was born). We were as comfortable as we could possibly be under the circumstances, with a guide (a ‘birder’, and also the owner of the trekking company we had hired), a cook, two assistants, four mules and two mule-wallahs to do our bidding. And the weather held out while we were there – we heard that the snowfall began while on our way down. Yes, we were glad we did it!

Col. Mamgain, Mrs. C and Mr. C on a short break during the trek

And my mind goes back to 1986, to Mr. Shah (now 80 and retired in Ahmedabad), Mr. Lee (moved to the Gulf) and the boys (now in their late 40s and probably dealing with their respective male menopauses), and to what my life would have been like had I stayed on in Ajmer. I also can’t help wondering whether the SDM of Munsiyari who had refused permission for us to proceed to Milam was right to do so, and whether we were unjust in our assessment of him as a typical babu showing power over hapless subjects.

A Winter's Lunch by the Sea of Okhotsk

A WINTER’S LUNCH BY THE SEA OF OKHOTSK

January 2017

The family decided to close 2016 (a truly awful year, by most counts) by visiting the Sea of Okhotsk (hereafter ‘the Sea’). ‘Where and why?’ you would no doubt be asking, and ‘does a bad year have to be seen out via such a drastic step?’ At the outset, this note is not aimed at addressing these questions (though I begin with a cursory attempt at doing so), it is to describe the impressions from the visit.

So, where - the Sea is bounded by Russia’s eastern coast, the Kamchatka peninsula, the Kuril Islands, Sakhalin (all Russia), and the northern part of Hokkaido in Japan. The Kurils, an island chain between Hokkaido and Kamchatka, separate the Sea from the Pacific Ocean. The area is somewhat historic for both Japan and Russia – this is where their respective empires clashed; where they fought wars (1905 and 1945), where they screwed indigenous people (such as the Ainu and Nivkhs) over, and where the sovereign status of some of the areas mentioned above continue to be disputed. The Sea itself is known to be intimidating – it is misty, rough, and has large ice flows (apparently its freezing point is increased by fresh water inflows from the Amur River that serve to reduce its salinity). It was a whaling paradise until the tragedy of the commons played itself out, and it continues to be of strategic importance because of its location – the vessels of the Russian Navy’s Pacific Fleet, headquartered in Vladivostok, have to use it to reach the open ocean.

The Old Man by the Sea (of Okhotsk)

 Why – the only explanation I have is that holiday planning in the family observes no logic or reason, is always done at the last minute, and anyone voicing temperance or caution is treated like a sissy in the playground. The resulting holidays tend to be experiences that end with nobody speaking with anyone else, with a common consensus that we will never do this again (until we do it again), and with all round relief to be back at school, college or work where we can respectively recover.

We chose to see the Sea from the Japanese side; Mumbai-Delhi-Tokyo by air, Tokyo to Sapporo and onward to Wakkanai (at the northern tip of Hokkaido, on the Sea) by train before returning to Sapporo, a flight from Sapporo to Nagoya (where we brought in the new year), a train to Narita, and finally back to Mumbai by air.

Our first inclination that we may in over our heads was at the Japan Rail (JR) ticket counter in Sapporo, when we were making seat reservations. “Why Wakkanai?” was the refrain of the booking clerk, “too cold, too much snow.” (And she lives in a place that has hosted the Winter Olympics). When we said that it was for a holiday and would she recommend it she emphatically shook her head. Our next one was when the train to Wakkanai stopped in the middle of nowhere because of excess snow. Now, there had been heavy snow on the tracks from Sendai (about two hours from Tokyo) onwards without any train going even a minute off schedule – what was happening here? It waited for about 45 minutes, during which the conductor came several times and made long spiels in Japanese (all announcements in JR are in Japanese and English until something unscheduled happens) before moving on again. We were wondering whether to be worried, and make enquiries, and then decided against it given that our co-passengers appeared completely unconcerned.

Wakkanai itself was interesting – a town of 30,000 people of whom nobody was visible during our long walk along the Sea, probably not unreasonable given that there was a blizzard on, it was bitterly cold, and there was a lot of snow on the ground. The Sea itself looked like it would soon be freezing over – grey, rough, and miserable – not a tourist attraction. We did find an open eatery (using the old fashioned technique of peering in through the window), it must have been a take-out because there was just a counter and an old lady chopping something up on it who smiled, waved us in, and then served us our food in her kitchen. We ate a wonderful meal consisting of very fresh fish in various Japanese sauces washed down with rice and hot green tea. We later found a coffee shop run by an old man who spoke a little English – it turned out to be the local geriatrics’ adda, with all of them curious about our origins and reasons for visiting. They assured us over many coffees and cigarettes that, while it was quite a happening place in summer, we were fortunate in being here at a time when we could experience the ‘real Wakkanai’.

Lunch by the Sea of Okhotsk

A word about Air India, on which we had reluctantly and rather fearfully travelled (the first time I had used it for foreign travel beyond the likes of Kathmandu and Kabul) and which has since earned itself the distinction of being rated ‘the world’s third worst airline’. It was the best long flight I have done – Delhi-Tokyo-Delhi was bang on time, the planes were Dreamliners (and the connecting Delhi-Mumbai flight on our return was a Jumbo), the food and service (the first time I have been offered a third beer with a smile) was excellent, and the small things were done with thought (we had to clear immigration and customs in Delhi on our return, and then check in again for Mumbai – the ordinary baggage handlers guided us on where to go, and then advised us to transfer our precious duty-free booze into our check-in bags before clearing security in Delhi). The only suggestion I would make on the basis of this visit is that they point out the flush in their planes’ toilets in Hindi and request its usage.

I have waxed eloquently about the Bullet Trains (or what the Japanese call ‘Shinkansen’) before, and I am going to do so again. The Hokkaido Shinkansen is particularly awesome, both the journey and the train itself, even by Japanese standards. It is a new route that connects Japan’s main island with its northern-most one via the world’s longest undersea tunnel. The long journey northwards from Tokyo crosses several climatic zones, and we had snow from the northern Tohuku region of Honshu onwards. The only downside is that the beautiful landscape is interrupted by frequent tunnels (Bullet Trains need to go straight to maintain their 300 kmph speed and therefore go through rather than around barriers) and this is a bit disconcerting for one’s enjoyment of the scenery. The train is called a ‘Hayabusa’ (the Japanese word for a peregrine falcon), with an engine that has a longer body than other Shinkansen possibly because it has to plough through a lot of snow, and even if you are inured to the sight of a Bullet Train pulling into a station, this one will still make you go ‘wow’. I am not sure how this route makes any money (even though a Tokyo – Hakodate – Sapporo ticket is seriously expensive, about three times the cost of a Tokyo-Sapporo flight) and I suspect that some of the cost is state subsidized because the Hokkaido Shinkansen ensures the presence of a very Japanese symbol on its northern most (and Russia facing) island.

Some scenery between Sapporo and Wakkanai

A momentous occurrence in the family annals happened on the evening of 31^st December, in the city of Nagoya. We had planned to bring in the New Year together, and were a bit sentimental given that the children were growing up and leaving the nest and therefore the occasions in which we were all together were becoming rarer and should be savoured, blah, blah, blah! The afore-mentioned children, however, had other ideas – they managed to procure all-you-can-eat-and-drink passes to a restaurant called Hooters for the evening (if you haven’t heard of this restaurant chain, please look it up) and left us old fogeys at 10.30 pm. Their mother and I spent the rest of the evening questioning our suitability as parents, and wondering how to address questions from our own parental generation (‘Oh, how nice that you were together at New Year’s? What did you do?’ ‘Well, we slept and your grandchildren effed off to Hooters. We don’t know when they returned.’) You know what I mean!

Our last night of the trip was at Narita, the town eponymous with the airport. We were given a resounding send-off at a local Thai eatery, where the old gentleman at the pay-counter decided to give us a ‘50 percent off’ on the already-low prices and we decided to respond by spending double what we had originally planned, mostly on Sapporo Draft (super stuff, and 50 percent off on this too), with the consequence of a decrepit and dishevelled look when we boarded our flight next morning.

“Never again!” we swore, as always, once we returned to the sanctuary of home and hearth, “Let’s go to Goa next time.” But I can already discern some all-too-familiar churning – my elder son has sent me a travel brochure for North Korea and his mother, instead of freaking out, has noticed that we can visit Sakhalin, Vladivostok and possibly Petropavlovsk as well if we take in a few more days. Watch this space!

A Journey Into the Red Sun

A JOURNEY INTO THE RED SUN

A 2-Pager by Ajit Chaudhuri – September 2015

 Introduction: A not-quite-philosophical question from the 1970s went – what is the difference between the happy man and the unhappy man? The answer was – the happy man has a Japanese wife, a Chinese cook, English décor in his home, and an American salary. The unhappy man, on the other hand, has an American wife, an English cook, Japanese décor in his home, and a Chinese salary.

Much has changed from the 1970s! The days of boring English cooking, for example, are long gone – the absorption of dishes from the erstwhile colonies (such as chicken tikka masala) has made a visit to a typical pub a pleasure for the food as well as the booze. And while I have no first-hand experience of either Chinese salaries or American wives, I have not heard adverse impressions about either.

It was the Japanese reference that particularly fascinated me as a kid. Did Japanese women actually lie down on the floor on the man’s side of the bed every morning so that his first step of the day would be on a warm back? Books on medieval Japan, such as ‘Shogun’ (James Clavell, 1975) seemed to indicate so. But how did this fit in with the narrative of sparse décor, where there were no beds in homes?

That I got an opportunity to find out for myself has its root cause in a parenting policy that can best be described as one of ‘benign neglect’. When my elder child picked up a fascination for the manga style of Japanese cartooning at about age 8 and spent all his time watching or drawing them, his mother and I did not tell him to ‘forget this crap and concentrate on studies’. When he evinced an interest at age 13 in becoming a manga-ka or cartoonist, we wearily accepted the possibility of him living in our basement as an adult, siphoning off pocket money from our pensions. We even encouraged him to visit Japan for 5 weeks at age 16, on his own, to explore his avenues – his mother, who is quite strategic on these matters, suggesting to me that this might be the best way to rid him of his obsessions and return to doctor-engineer-dom. She turned out to be right (as she always is), except that the love for manga was replaced by one for Japan – he even wrote a book about his visit, a 16-year-old’s view of Japan, that I found brilliant and would strongly recommend (and whose title I have borrowed for this note) except that the f-word is used 41 times (his mother did a word count). He was subsequently accepted into university in Nagoya this year, and we went with him to do the Bengali-parents thing of dropping him off, settling him down, crying in front of his new peers, etc.

What can I say about Japan from my 10-day visit? For one, it is the first developed country I have visited recently in which the anti-smoking and feminist lobbies have not run riot – you could smoke where you liked, in your room, in bars with your cold beer, in public places, and there were ashtrays everywhere to indicate so. And women dressed so as to walk as candy in men’s arms rather than make their own paths, so to speak, using clothes, make-up and skin to resemble dolls rather than come across as women of substance. For another, it was beautiful – a combination of clean, safe, friendly, visually appealing, orderly, pedestrian-friendly, law-abiding, and with high service standards everywhere – a must visit for those looking for a first-world experience without going to western Europe or North America. For a third, it was large – not India large but still large – 128 million people with very high GDP per capita and living standards, a massive economy, and a long distance from one end to another. And for a fourth, food and booze (though little else) was cheap, and I would also probably have been a millionaire there, albeit in Yen.

This paper is less about our trip and more about what my wife and I, both seasoned and difficult-to-impress travellers, found awesome in Japan.

The Bullet Trains: My first sight of a Bullet Train (or Shinkansen, as they are called in Japan) was of one pulling into Nagoya station – a large engine resembling a bull’s head without horns followed by 16 carriages, all in white, soundlessly entering the station at speed, coming to a halt, and then accelerating out two minutes later. The feeling was one of unadulterated awe, like when, as a 12-year-old seeing ‘Sholay’ for the first time, the camera first focused on Gabbar Singh. We used the Shinkansen extensively during our visit (Nagoya-Tokyo-Nagoya and then Nagoya-Hiroshima-Kyoto-Nagoya), making full use of a weeklong Japan Rail (JR) Pass that allowed us unlimited entry into the trains (which were expensive otherwise – a Nagoya-Tokyo ticket cost the equivalent of Rs. 6,000. The JR Pass cost Rs. 29,000 per person for 7 days, available only to foreigners on limited stay tourist visas, and usable on most trains). The trains are fast (the 552 km journey from Tokyo to Osaka takes 160 minutes, reaching 300 kmph), reliable, punctual to the minute, and very efficient.

Japanese Potties: The typical shitpot has a temperature control for the seating area, forward and backward sprays with a control that enables you to manoeuvre them and change their intensities and temperatures, and something that provides a background noise to cover all your toilet sounds. Wow! All that’s missing is a video game that provides a target down below for you to aim your matter at (as kids, we used to throw in a paper ball and play ‘Bombing of Berlin’) and rack up points.

Japanese Gardens: I had read ‘The Garden of Evening Mists’ (Tan Twan Eng, 2012) before the visit, and so knew a little about the concept of a Japanese Garden in which elements of nature are reduced into an artificial space and controlled so as to produce an immaculate area for retreat and reflection. It was therefore a pleasure to see several of them in Kyoto – the ones that particularly impressed were in Ginkakuji Temple, in the Nijo Castle, and in one of the residences around the Imperial Palace. They stood in sharp contrast to the Zen Garden in the Ryoanji Temple, also very impressive but in a minimal way; all pebble, a few rocks, no water, and not a blade of grass – the only green coming from a little moss around the rocks.

The small things: Not everything that impressed was about high technology and fancy design – we also saw simple innovations that made everyday living easier. The ladies toilets (in case you are wondering, this observation is from the better half) have a little space upon which you can strap on a baby and do your job in peace. Hotel receptions had barstools upon which you could place a bag and thereby easily access your wallet or diary. Fast food joints gave you a buzzer that alerted you as to when your order was ready at the counter. All places where you had to take your shoes off had a long shoe horn nearby to help you put them back on. And so on!

The Food: The food was a revelation – cheap and excellent, but maybe not too suitable for vegetarians, practising Muslims, and Hindutva-types, and this is probably a reason for us seeing few fellow countrymen during the visit (no complaints on this – the departure gate for the Shanghai-Delhi flight was full of India’s finest; loud, manner-less testicle scratchers on their way back from some trade fair – next time, a direct flight). New sensations flooded my taste buds; wasabi, different types of sushi and tempura, steaks, fried chicken (so good that KFC was comparatively bland), the more neutral sashimi, sticky rice, grills, gyoza, and an array of sauces and powders to manipulate the flavours. We washed stuff down with beer (the Sapporo draft was the best, Kirrin and Asahi were good) and sake (while we had quite a bit ourselves, we didn’t see any Japanese having any). Pictures and prices of the food would be displayed prominently on the menus and outside the restaurant, and many places had a menu in English. And, last but not least, no tips, anywhere!

Nagoya Airport: The Central Japan International Airport outside Nagoya is on an artificial island that was built specifically for this purpose. We entered at night, and therefore only experienced its efficiency – out, a quick, pleasant and welcoming immigration experience, collect the baggage, and into the train for the centre of town. It was when we were leaving, in the afternoon that we saw its viewing gallery of both the runway and the sea around it, the wide spaces (including a giant tsunami evacuation hall), and the wide and varied shopping, and realized that we could have also taken a speedboat into town (albeit at three times the price of the train).

Miyajima: We decided to do one thing slightly out of the way, and that was to spend a night and day at this small island in the Seto Inland Sea that was said to contain one of the three best views in Japan. This required taking a train from Hiroshima to Miyajimaguchi and then a ferry across to Miyajima, (all covered under the JR Pass) and spending a night in a ryokan (a traditional Japanese Inn – expensive and requiring sleeping on the floor, but luxurious and spacious and with a public bath facility thrown into the cost that we both experienced). We did the 2-hour trek up to Mt. Misen (a holy mountain that forms part of a world heritage site) the next day, through the Ohmata Park and across primeval forests, a walk in the park for those who have done the Kailash Yatra on foot but also the first occasion that I was glad that I had brought my serious walking boots along, and came down using a fancy ropeway system. This was also the only place we visited where most people spoke a little English, where asking for directions was not an exercise in futility.

To conclude: The brochures said that Japan mixed ‘western lifestyle with eastern sensibilities’, and I can agree. There was much to appreciate in this first trip, and some irritants as well; the difficulty in finding a place (nobody knew anything about the location of any place, and would take at least ten minutes to tell you so – we soon learnt not to ask for directions), the queues at women’s toilets (the men, on the other hand, could just walk in, do the job, and walk out; there was no wait-time anywhere), and the rather sorry description of Japan’s reasons for going into WW2 at Hiroshima (apparently it was to free their Asian brethren of colonial rule) and its depiction of itself as a victim and not aggressor. I will go back, travel around more, and let the country unfold itself slowly upon me. Arigatou gozaimasu and sayonara!

The Summer of '14

THE SUMMER OF ‘14

By Ajit Chaudhuri

‘Bhole Baba ko milna aasaan nahin, Kabhi kashta uthana padta hai’

(It’s not easy to meet Lord Shiva, one has to face a few difficulties)

Introduction: Many of my generation would remember ‘The Summer of ‘42’, a cult American coming of age film wherein a lucky kid makes out with Jennifer O’Neale (though cricket lovers tend to associate it with India’s 42 all out batting performance at Lords in 1974). They also remember ‘The Summer of ‘69’, the Brian Adams song about a boy playing the guitar until his fingers bled. But I, for one, will also always remember the summer of 2014, when I joined the most beautiful woman in the world for a journey into the mountains.

No, for those within my readership with wild imaginations, I did not disappear into a lonely log cabin in the Swiss Alps with Madhuri Dixit, Behati Prinsloo or Sara Carbonero (if you don’t know who they are, I strongly recommend a short detour into Google Images) and a chef and housekeeper, where we took walks in the mist, depleted the wine cellar, watched the World Cup, and did a little more. It was actually much better than that! My wife and I (and, it has to be said, 46 others) made up the second batch of pilgrims that went to Mount Kailash and Lake Mansarovar in China in 2014 – a 1,000 plus km journey of which 202 km was on foot, across the Himalayas and back.

Not Dixit, Prinsloo or Carbonero, but the lady on my left is stunning! Photo by Saurabh Bose.

This note is not about the destination or the journey – there is much writing available on both (though little of it does justice to either, and, to be fair, it probably can’t – this area, after all, is the source of three important rivers, is sacred to four religions, is visually stunning and is, to put it mildly, difficult to reach – truly the roof of the world) – it is about what I learned in the process. Here is a short list of discoveries made during the summer of 2014.

One – I can still walk: The journey involved going up the Kumaon Himalayas on the Indian side, crossing the 17,000 plus foot Lipu Lekh Pass into Tibet, coming down the other side, and then doing the 50 odd km Kailash parikrama including crossing the almost 19,000 feet Drolma Pass. There was a hush in the group meeting at Dharchula, when we were counting the pony and porter requirement, when I said that I would use neither; I would walk, and would carry my own backpack (the government recommends, but doesn’t require, every pilgrim taking a pony and a porter). And so, I did! Needless to add, some younger blades in the group decided that if an old fart like me could do it, so could they. There were times when I regretted my madness (the first day of the return from China, for example, when we did 30 km across the Lipu to Goonji, and the 26 km we did on the day we crossed the Drolma La), but I have to say that my wife of almost 22 years was quietly impressed. The feeling was reciprocated – she too did most of the journey on foot.

A welcoming sight above Navidhang, 9 km from the top of the Lipu Lekh Pass into China! Photo by Navin Tank.

Two – China is awesome: I already knew that, after walking 6 days up the Himalayas on the Indian side, we would walk down just 3 km on the Chinese side and there would be a bus waiting for us – the Chinese have roads almost up to the border. I also knew that Taklakot (or Purang), the headquarters of one of China’s most remote counties within its most backward and remote province, would be a bustling town with fashionably dressed women all over the place, Go-Go Bars, Tea Houses and prostitutes. What nobody prepared me for was that the tap water in Taklakot would be of drinkable quality, that women would be doing everything men were doing, and that visiting a local eatery (the group hired kosher cooks to make Indian vegetarian food for the 9-day China-side of the visit, but my wife and I sneaked off for dinner in the evenings we were in Taklakot) would be such a good experience. We communicated in sign language and by pointing to what others were eating, in one place the cook came out of the kitchen when we walked in and welcomed us with a cigarette each, young girls would come up with their phones and ask to take selfies with my wife, and generally we were made to feel very welcome.

There was a level of efficiency and a quality of resources that would be unimaginable back home, as well as a smoothness of arrangements and an adherence to time (which, I am happy to say, was a quality shared by our group – to the surprise of our Chinese guides). And yet, there were refreshingly Indian elements to life – there were no such thing as fixed prices in the market, and bargaining was done using a calculator to write out a number and then passing it back and forth until an agreement was reached. And when we complained about the behaviour of the porters and pony handlers during the Kailash parikrama, the authorities just threw up their hands and said that they had been trying for years to get them to behave properly, but it was impossible and there was nothing that they could do.

Mount Kailash, as seen in the evening from Deraphuk. Photo by Rinky Chaudhuri

Someone observed that ‘thank God Kailash and Mansarovar are in China – had they been in India they would have become the miserable shit-holes overflowing with greed and dirt that our shrines have become’. I think there was near consensus within the group on this.

Three – there is much to appreciate about Hinduism: As a hardcore atheist, I was deeply uncomfortable about having to spend 24 days (I include the days spent in Delhi on MEA briefings and medical examinations) closeted with pilgrim-types. My experience on earlier visits into hills was that, in addition to being bigoted, pilgrims were dirty, selfish, and environmentally irresponsible, and avoidance was the best strategy. All those I spoke with who had done the journey previously said that the pilgrims on this one were no different, but that every group has a few non-believers who are there for the adventure, and advised that it is best to find one’s own kind and stick to them.

This advice could not be followed because it was soon obvious that my wife and I were the only apostates around. And thank God for that! I got to know everyone, and discovered a great bunch (and one of the things about a long trek is that you cannot hide your true personality) that I am proud to know.

Baba Ajitnath at Lake Mansarovar. Photo by Sanjay Manocha

From the beginning, I never felt excluded! Nobody looked at me questioningly when I didn’t know the words to bhajans, or to the Hanuman Chalisa, or didn’t know what an aarti was, or even when I sat out of the group’s havan on the banks of Mansarovar (I was called in time to eat the prasad) and bunked a visit to a temple in Taklakot so that I could watch a replay of a football game (a friend even joined me for that). Only one person asked me why I was on the trip given my obvious lack of religious belief and another, our group’s glamour doll, once expressed surprise at the contrast between my knowledge of religious matters and my knowledge of everything else (ahem!). By the end of the trip, the words ‘Om Namoh Shivaye’ were rolling easily off my tongue, and I was enthusiastically singing bhajans and whatnot. My wife is now worried that we will begin doing pooja at home.

I (and the others) like to think that there was something special about our group. For me, we were a wonderful advertisement for Hinduism – not too judgemental, reasonably respectful of each other, of other cultures, and of women, and interested in having fun and enjoying ourselves. I felt the inclusiveness of my religion here. There were Hindutva elements in the group, but they didn’t make it obvious, and there were public menaces as well, who woke up at 0200 hours to chant and pray, and who rushed to be first for food, but we soon saw the funny side of this behaviour. We also had our arguments and disagreements, but we all became good friends. Today, 3 weeks after our return, we are missing each other terribly.

Four – the more things change, the more they remain the same: Next to Lake Mansarovar was the equally beautiful Lake Rakshastal, where Ravan had done his penance to Shiva. Why did he need a separate lake? Because he was an asura, and the devas refused to share Mansarovar’s water with him. Does the discrimination sound familiar? Advocates of the perfection of those times, who are trying to re-introduce Ram-rajya, need to have a think.

Five – I learnt something about leadership: A journey such as this – large groups of not particularly young or fit people going across some of the toughest terrain in the world, at high altitudes and in inclement weather – is not easy to manage. It involves coordination between multiple agencies; the Ministry of External Affairs, who are the main organizers, the Kumaon Mandal Vikas Nigam, the Indo-Tibetan Border Police, the Government of Uttarakhand and, on the China side, the Tibetan Tourism Authority. And yet, for the pilgrims, there were few sources of tension – we were fed regularly, we slept under a roof every night, and we pottied in closed and reasonably clean spaces that had access to water (except for Deraphuk and Zimchulphuk in China). Coordination f-ups did not, for the most part, permeate down to us.

Contemplating the meaning of life on the banks of the Mansarovar! Photo by Rinky Chaudhuri

This is because the Ministry appoints a person to lead each group, coordinate with the respective agencies, take the tensions and stresses, and get the pilgrims there and back safely – usually a mid-level government officer, who is referred to as a liaison officer (or LO). And we were lucky in our LO – we got a gem of a guy who actually loved trekking (he was one of the select few in the group who’s butts never felt the back of a horse for the entire journey) and being with people, and who had none of the airs of babudom. He didn’t have an easy time of it, there were shortages of ponies and porters for most of the journey, people’s luggage got misplaced, and pilgrims in general tend to be considerably more rights-conscious than the average Indian citizenry, but he handled us brilliantly; with calm, patience, minimum authority and maximum effect. I was particularly touched when I arrived late in the evening at Budhi, dead-tired after a long day walking with some ladies who were having difficulty (the LO had given me the job of being at the tail of the group on a day that we had no ponies), and he was waiting at the entry to the camp to personally thank me. We subsequently got to know that we were the only batch in the history of the Kailash Mansarovar Yatra to have made it up to Goonji without ponies. That all 48 of us made it across and back in the circumstances that we did was in no small way due to his leadership.

Six – I can miss the World Cup and still live: I have watched the World Cup since it first came live on Indian TV, from the 1982 semi-final between Poland and Italy (2-0 to Italy, Rossi scored both). As a practice, I switch off once in four years and devote myself entirely to the game, and my friends and family know that this is not a time to die, fall sick, get married, have babies, or do anything that requires attention or effort from me. So, when the places for the journey were allotted and our dates fell entirely during the World Cup, my wife was sure that she would be doing it without me (‘I know you’ll dump me at the last moment, you b#@%y b#@?%d,’ were her exact words). Given the prospect of our 21-year-old marriage not reaching 22, I made a choice.

I know that I missed a great World Cup. I missed Algeria, Costa Rica and Columbia doing so well, England and Italy doing the opposite, Brazil getting -- (is there a word in English for what happened to them?), and a European team finally winning in South America. But, hey, as the old Kris Kristofferson number goes, ‘life goes on, and this old world keeps on turning’.

To conclude: A dip in Lake Mansarovar is supposed to rid a person of hatred, jealousy, greed, delusion and idleness, according to the legends (the absence of ‘lust’ and ‘anger’ on this list raises eyebrows). I don’t know if it applies to skeptics like me, and it certainly hasn’t thus far, at least on the ‘idleness’ front. But, according to an old friend who had done the journey some years ago, these 24 days will have strange effects in the long term – effects that are not obvious early, but effects that will change one’s life. I will wait and see and, if and when they happen, I will take them as they come.

Postcards From The Edge

POSTCARDS FROM THE EDGE

Ajit Chaudhuri – February 2014

‘That which does not kill us makes us stronger’ - Friedrich Nietzsche

I’ve travelled a bit in my fifty plus years, and done a few dumb things in the process. I place the blame for these on a line of thinking that I have consistently adhered to that goes ‘the nice thing about advice, no matter how credible, good or sensible it is, is that I don’t have to take it’. If I’d known what I know now, would I have done those things? I don’t know! Mad plans (or no plans), after all, give space for serendipity to work its magic. And yet, when I look at the following list of travel experiences that I would not advise anyone to repeat, I cannot help but think, ‘Good God, was I really that stupid?’

Going Topless on Taglang La: I was trekking from Leh to Spiti in August 1995 and decided to use the opportunity while crossing the Taglang La pass to pose for a photograph next to the signboard (the photo is attached below).

The temperature at the time was -11c, and yes, the white in the background is snow. I was cold from deep within for the next two days, and miserable too, but the stunt was well worth it – it has set the gold standard for machismo or stupidity (depending upon gender) among family and friends. When my grandchildren see me doddering around with a walking stick and make fun, they will be shown this and told, ‘do something similar, and then talk’.

Crossing the Arctic Circle in Winter: As a mid-career student in London in late November 2001 (on a generous scholarship, may I add, and with wife and children far away), I had a long weekend coming up and one of the things I hadn’t yet done in life was see the aurora borealis. Where could one do this? The chances were higher the further north one was, I was told, so I booked a ticket from London to Oslo and then onwards north to Tromso at 70 degrees latitude, and duly spent the weekend there. The damn lights refused to oblige, however, and I returned without seeing them, but I had a pretty good time supporting the local alcohol and nightclub industries – the appended link has a detailed account of my adventures there. The surprising thing was that, despite the heavy snow, it wasn’t too cold (the Barents Sea has a warm water current) and it also wasn’t too weird having no sun and seeing, instead, the effects of moonlight on snow through the day. Beautiful! But never again!

http://kaaluontheroad.blogspot.in/2007/03/far-north.html

Visit to Ukhrul: Manipur in early 1997 was a mess! The Nagas were fighting the Kukis, the Meiteis were fighting the hill tribes, the drug dealers were fighting the Church and everyone was fighting the Army, and I was in the state with a colleague, Dr. Sunil Kaul, to appraise an NGO for possible financial support. We could have done it sitting in the state capital, Imphal, but decided, what the hell, let’s go and see the NGO where it worked, in the hills in Ukhrul. Not an easy decision, may I add, because the organization leading the Naga insurgency (the NSCN-IM, for the pundits among you) was founded and headquartered there, and because the foothills, which we would have had to pass through, were under the control of Kuki militant groups.

The daylong journey from Imphal was tense, but we ended up in a place that would have made Kashmir seem ordinary – beautiful rolling hills lightly covered in mist, the smell of light rain on dry ground, and little log cabins with smoking chimneys intermittently spread across the hillside. The NGO had a training centre a little away from town, another log cabin, and we were put up there. Coincidentally, a group of 19 young ladies were being trained in the arts of beekeeping (or something) there at the time, and they were told that ‘two young men have come from Delhi – look after them!’ The quality of care that we got over the next day was unimaginable! To give you an idea, to wash hands before our evening meal, four young ladies came up to us; one with a kettle of hot water, one with a bowl for the used water to fall into, one with soap and one with a towel. Seven star hotels – you don’t compare!

Driving Holiday to Yamunotri: My family has been taking driving holidays together since 2001. They usually follow a pattern; a 6 to 18 day duration, an intended destination from which to begin the return journey but no plans on where to stop for nights or routes to take, and a promise upon returning to Delhi never to do it again because we are all sick of each other. In the process, we have made some interesting journeys, stayed in some excellent (and some terrible) hotels, eaten some unusual food and seen some exotic sights. But once, and only once, in 2005, did we leave the house with absolutely no destination in mind. We took NH1 towards Chandigarh, turned east somewhere towards Paonta Saheb, and then north again at Vikas Nagar, stopped for a night on the way, and finally ended up at a yatri niwas in Janki Chatti (which my kids renamed Janki’s Chaddi), where one begins the 6 km walk to Yamunotri. The next day, we did the walk up and down, with my kids aged 5 and 8 being bribed with the promise of a prize if they made it without a horse, which they duly did. We made quite a contrast to the yatris on the trail.

Fieldwork in Panjab and Waras: Being entrusted with the task of evaluating a training centre in Bamiyan (Afghanistan, summer of 2009) did not require me to visit the centre’s extension outposts in the province’s remote districts, but I asked to do so anyway. ‘If I am required to attest to their existence,’ I told my rather incredulous hosts, who were more used to the opposite sort of requests from consultants, ‘I will have to see them.’ Thus began a journey in a muscular 4-wheel-drive through some of the toughest terrain in the world, the central highland region of Afghanistan, from Bamiyan via Yakawlang to the districts of Panjab and Waras. The highlight of the visit was a stopover on the way back at Bandh-e-Amir, a series of seven large, naturally formed, stepped, blue water lakes, one of the remotest and most beautiful wonders of nature, where I even managed to get a boat out into the waters. I am informed that the journey is off limits now because of some recent kidnappings indicating Taliban activity in the region, and I am damned glad that I did it when I could.

Conclusions: If the tone of this paper indicates that mad travel-related stuff is relegated to the past let me assure you that such is, hopefully, not the case. To conclude, I list out five acts that, inshallah, I will do some day in the future.

1.    Trek around Mt. Nanda Devi – this involves going north in Kumaon, crossing Milam and then hitting the 5,000 meter plus passes Unta Dhura, Khingri Bingri and Jandi Dhura, going around the Nanda Devi and getting back via Garhwal. Some day when my trekking friends and I have sufficient contact in the Home Ministry to get the necessary permissions …

2.    Watch a Millwall match at The Den – this is one of the roughest and most passionate football crowds in the UK, who mix their passion for football and love for their club with racism, anti-immigration, and right wing politics. Not a place for the faint-hearted, but I look forward to my friend Tony (who ashamedly admitted to being a Millwall fan) taking me there some day.

3.    Travel up the Wakhan Corridor – I have been several times to the province of Badakhshan in Afghanistan, and one day want to see its most remote district, Pamir, and to travel along the buffer zone between the British and Russian empires, in the narrow sliver of land between the Tian Shan, Hindukush and Karakorum mountain ranges. This is the Wakhan Corridor.

4.    Take an Alaskan Cruise – get on to a ship in Seattle, and take a journey northwards along the western American coastline across the Puget Sound, then British Columbia (Canada) and then Alaska, through the many little islands in this part of the Pacific, and preferably with my larger family.

5.    Visit the battle sites of the Mongol Army’s western campaigns of the 13^th century – these are spread across modern day Poland, Hungary, Ukraine and Russia, in places like Legnica, Kalka River, Ryazan, Suzdal and Mohi.