Friday, June 28, 2013
Well shit...
Sometimes it is only once a week or even once every ten
days, sometimes it is five times or more a day and only rarely is it each
morning between getting up and having a shower. It is the topic of casual
conversations with near strangers and sometimes it is the all-consuming focus
of my attention to the exclusion of a gorgeous sunset, the location of my
passport and the fact that the world exists beyond my bowels.
This is a brief dissertation on shit in Ladakh. Knowledge,
of course, cannot be given back and if you wish to know nothing of toilets in
Ladakh, including their design, use function, mishaps and misadventures then
you should turn your attention elsewhere. You should close your eyes and rely
on an idealized version of travel that does not include the hard truths of life
beyond a porcelain throne, central plumbing, and discretely placed cans of air
freshener.
Ladakh is a land of rock and dust with the occasional tree
planted in the hope it might one day find a useful structural location after
its death. Little of use is wasted, and ceremony is left to the useful areas of
Buddha, karma and kindness. Toilets are
built of mud bricks stacked one on top of the other until a two story shitter
rises above the bedrock and barely arable land. Each of these stories has its
own entrance where the first is accessed though a small wooden door at ground
level and the second is found at the top of well worn steps. I have no idea
what the Ladakhi call these different doors; indeed I have no idea if they even
bother to give them separate names. As a way to embrace my ignorance I have
chosen to call the bottom door “Very Wrong Door” and the top or second story
door “Not So Wrong Door.”
Like so may things in the world, shit travels with gravity
and in the case of a Ladakhi toilet shit travels from the second floor, where
it is deposited, to the first floor where it is stored for later use. Thus in
the middle of the night when the fist of a titan squeezes your guts it is
important to remember this fact and run up the steps to the second floor. Do
not go blundering blindly into the “Very Wrong Door”.
Choosing the correct door is not the only challenge to be
faced. Remember that these building are made by hand with mud bricks and
building them is hard work. The taller the shitter the harder the work and thus
I do not begrudge the Ladakhi insistence on low ceilings. I do however, wish I
had a better memory and that I had never found myself wondering if the stars in
the sky were born from my head slamming into a ceiling joist or from a distance
supernova.
Once inside the toilet the fist thing to remember is: watch
your step. In the middle of the floor is a shoebox shaped hole, place your feet
on either side of it but don’t on any account place your foot in it. This hole
is for your shit not your foot, and since it is also for everyone else’s shit
as well nothing good could possibly come from such a mistake.
With one foot resting on either side of the hole the next
step is to drop your pants to your ankles. I have never tried this process in a
Ladaki winter nor do I relish the thought but it is worth remembering that the
Ladakhi town of Drass holds the record as the coldest inhabited place on earth
with temperatures see as low as -60°C.
For those born to the method of the squat/shit the next step
is, presumably, no big deal. I however, was not born to this method and the act
of keeping my balance, front to back and side to side without anything that
might resemble a handhold is a desperate challenge. If you are in doubt on this
last point just give it a try, put your feet shoulder width apart and bend your
knees until your thighs rest against your calves. Remember not to use your
hands and once your butt is a few inches from the floor remember to relax, you
are going to be here for a little bit. Also remember to practice this a few
times, you will inevitably need to ‘assume the position’ while in a desperate
hurry.
Lastly when you are finished with your business stand up with caution. That low ceiling is still waiting to crash into your head and if you strike it you will undoubtedly lose your footing and slip into an awkwardly placed hole in the floor.
Monday, June 10, 2013
Charged the Pakistan Border
Mountains of rock covered with boulders, coated in dust and
topped with ice; this is the Ladakh that has confronted me. Knife slits of
streams thread their way through valleys yet these streams only give birth to
vegetation reluctantly and sporadically. Tiny hamlets cling to these sporadic
green patches surrounded by stark brown cliffs, making a vast vertical desert
that ends only when it reached a featureless blue sky. Ladakh is a dry grandeur
that has defied my expectations not only for its obvious lack of water but also
for the life that thrives here. Herds of blue sheep range on these slopes
nibbling at vegetation only they seem able to find. As the sheep migrate up and
down these slopes with the seasons wolves and leopards follow them known only
from their nightly songs and tracks in the mud. Add to all this the windblown
and sun wrinkled old women quietly herding their yaks from one place to
another. Each time a trail crosses a pass, mounts a ridge or rounds a corner to
a noteworthy view tattered prayer flags sway in the wind and walls of
intricately carved mani stones part the path displaying their prayers to all
who care to learn the Tibetan script.
Ladakh is not what I had imagined. Nepal, Sikim, and Tibet
all felt like places that invited life. Ladakh by contrast feels like a place
where life has arrived without preparation but has managed to find a bewildered
and happy reception anyway much like the dinner guest who arrives without an
invitation but who also brings the groceries, cooks the food and fills the
house with laughter.
Five days ago we piled into a jeep with three other tourists
and a driver to travel from Leh to the Nubra Valley. Leaving Leh the road
begins an impossible climb through this land of rock and dust to Khardung La
pass at 5602m (18,379 feet). It seems to me that high mountains detest roads
and this road and these mountains are no exception. Though the Indian army and
sprawling camps of dark skinned laborers crush rocks, pour concrete, and divert
streams the road is still little more than a muddy stream bed filled with
struggling vehicles, fighting to form three lanes on a one lane track. Ladakh
is in India after all and no mountain road here has less then three lanes no
matter how narrow, and no matter how precipitous the surrounding cliffs there
is always one lane going up, one going down and one for the cars going both up
and down. Yet despite the inevitable motorized chaos the system somehow works
and the top of Khardung pass is festooned with crisp new prayer flags,
impossibly colorful cargo trucks, overflowing toilets and turbaned Sikh
families enjoying their first snowball fight. However, this would not be India
if the impossible were not also at perched atop this pass and so to complete
the picture a group of exhausted Italian cyclists festooned with helmets and
spandex completes the picture.
The journey down Khardung pass is profoundly different only
in the fact that you are now staring into Pakistan and that modern warriors sit
unseen furiously guarding the disputed boarder.
Meanwhile on the road uniformed soldiers and massive green transport
trucks mix freely with the chartered Toyota taxis and Royal Enfield motorcycles
of the Indian and western tourists.
The flat bottom and meandering river here do nothing to
alter the fact that Ladakh is dry and brown. In this regard at least the one
side of Khardung pass is much like the other though as we dropped further and
further into the valley a pivotal difference emerged: the Nubra valley is hot.
The town of Hunder offers tourist camel rides through the sand dunes along the
river’s edge and my left arm turned red where I hung it out the passenger side
window of our Toyota mini-van. In the valley floor the road is paved and though
our diver could have picked up speed he choose instead to delicately manage the
endless supply of blind corners and courteously let any trailing vehicles pass
us at the nearest place he could pull over. I found this particular detail of
our trip even more disorienting than the mad Italian cyclists at 18,000 feet. Though as our day wore on I relaxed into the
idea that our driver was more blind than courteous.
Nothing is free however; our driver’s understandable sense
of both propriety and self preservation brought us to a final stream crossing a
mere three miles from our final destination of Turtuk. All day the sun had
pounded the high altitude snowfields feeding this stream. In the morning what had
been a mere trickle now flowed with an intimidating force far beyond our driver’s
courage. Putting the mini van in park he simply said, ‘no’ and for the moment
the discussion ended. We all watched the stream and contemplated the inevitable
question, ‘Well what the hell do we do now?’
In a half-baked answer to our question a small man in a
Muslim knit hat and holding a hoe leapt from behind a boulder where he had been
enjoying an afternoon nap. Immediately he began swinging his hoe at the
road/stream bed in a comical attempt to clear a path. (Apparently the army pays
him to keep this little section of road passable.) His efforts were
fantastically energetic, utterly futile and tragically comical all at the same
time. It was with the arrival of a high
clearance, and fully loaded local bus that our question ‘Well what the hell do
we do now?’ answered itself. Our driver agreed to meet us at the stream
crossing the next morning and we charged onto the buss.
Or at least we tried to charge onto the bus. Suzanne,
perhaps utilizing her super powers honed in the New York subway, managed to
push her way onboard. I however, bounced off a solid wall of human flesh.
Fortunately, I am not without my own skills. I have learned the art of bus roof
riding in Nepal and without missing a beat I leapt to the roof, situated myself
on the luggage (fortunately there were no chickens this time) and braced for
the journey.
This then is how I found myself ducking tree branches and
power lines as I charged the Pakistan border mounted to the roof of a bus with
the sun setting in my eyes.
Thursday, May 23, 2013
The Bangkok Amulet Market
I was picking the remains of the helmet plastic from my
teeth when an email came in regarding my last blog post. It was suggested that
I should spend more time riding in tuktuks and taxis and less time on motorbike
taxis. Of course, this is sound advice but it also got me thinking. How is it
that I survived my last experience? The
only answer that I have been able to come up with is, luck. It was this thought
that led me to recall the medallion handing from my driver’s neck -- a giant
plastic Buddha encased in more clear plastic. All the taxi drivers in Bangkok
wear some kind of medallion but until this moment I had never really considered
what I was seeing. Since I am heading to India tomorrow where the traffic can
be even crazier I set out with the utmost haste to find a good luck charm of my
own.
Fortunately the Bangkok Amulet Market is just a short taxi
ride from my hotel and in deference to my friends’ advice I took a taxi with
four wheals and air conditioning. When I stepped into the taxi I did so with a
rather smug sense of self-satisfaction. This was a brilliant idea. When I
stepped out of the taxi and confronted the bewildering array of options I was
reminded yet again of my personal shortcomings. Stall after stall of this
covered market sat jammed together in an endless mound of trinkets, medallions
and amulets. Buyers poured over individual items examining them with a
magnifying glasses and an unquestionable sense of purpose. I was at a complete
loss. Clearly not just any old amulet would do but at the same time, how to
find the right one? Totally overwhelmed, I did the only sensible thing I could
think of and had an ice cream and Coke float.
In times of great stress I occasionally fall back on this
relic of my childhood. Root beer floats were something that my father used to
buy me as a special treat and though my memories of that time are blurred the
visceral sensation of being with my father is still completely intact. As the ice
cream and bit of frozen cola went down my throat I landed on a strategy for
picking my good luck charm.
First I would find a vender who believed in his wares. This
vender proved easy to spot as he sat bedazzled in amulets. I reasoned that if
he was using the amulets to drum up business and if I bought my amulet from him
then his amulets would have been proven to work. His amulets made me purchase
from him. As the saying goes, “The nice thing about being rational is that one
can rationalize anything.” I now have an
amulet bought from a man with a proven track record of selling working amulets.
It is perfect.
…Except for the lingering doubt in the back of my mind. Both
my kamikaze taxi driver and my merchant of good fortune sported massive pendants.
Mine on the other hand is rather small. Does size matter?
Saturday, May 18, 2013
Bangkok Taxi
A
friend once told me that all good stories should begin with the phrase: No
shit, there I was.
No shit, there I was clinging with a death grip to the back of a
pink polka-dotted motorcycle taxi as we flew down the sidewalk, dodging
pedestrians, and saving untold seconds of travel time by not pausing in the
Bangkok traffic. The bike then launched into the air as we jumped the curb and
traded the sidewalk for the precious twelve inches of space taken up by the
gutter and now bordered by a Samsung advertising sign and an accelerating bus.
My motorcycle taxi driver slammed on the brakes as the bus began to casually
compact our remaining space in the gutter. Fright crushed the air from my lungs
and left my jaw gaping open. Unprepared for the rapid deceleration, my now open
mandibles sank into the driver's helmeted head. Unlike the rest of the
motorcycle, which was covered in circular pink stickers, my driver’s helmet
sported pink triangles. Bits of which, fused with smog and high density
plastic, became lodged in my teeth.
Moments after the bus accelerated past us we swerved right and
into the flow of traffic. Now trailing the bus I momentarily wondered if I
might be able to use the exhaust pipe to pick the bits of plastic from my
teeth. We seemed close enough but no sooner had this whimsical thought occurred
than we again swung to the right, crossed the yellow line separating us from on
coming traffic and sped past the bus. With the exhaust pipe now ruled out as a
tooth pick and bits of helmet still lodged in my teeth I considered using my
tongue to extract the debris. Swerving left to avoid oncoming traffic and
cutting off the bus that once threatened to crush us we banged across two steel
plates in the road. My teeth slammed together with an audible clack and the
idea of using my tongue to clean the plastic from my teeth died in a bid to minimize
future pain and bloody saliva.
When I was teaching one of my nieces to drive I told her that
being a good driver had everything to do with good judgment and very little to
do with physical skill. By this logic I was a terrible passenger. Good judgment
would have found me another way across town, preferably one that did not cause
me to question my life expectancy from one moment to the next. My physical
skill, on the other hand, furnished me with little more than an iron grip on
the bike.
Ahead I saw the traffic light turn red and foolishly sighed with
relief. Surely red meant stop and this crazed roller coaster ride would at
least pause. As brake lights cascaded toward us the driver again swerved to the
left and sought a path between the rows of idling cars. As we accelerated
forward I fought to suck my knees in to avoid the sideview mirrors that sliced
at us like knives coming simultaneously at us from both the left and right.
Again my ignorance led to me to think a pause would be in order as
we burst through the front of the parked cars and were instead confronted with
a moving chain of cars traveling perpendicular to us. Perhaps if this new wall
of cars had been moving faster, perhaps much faster, then I would have had my
pause but my driver saw an opening. Not waiting for the light to turn green,
not waiting for an obvious and sane way forward, the pink polka-dotted engine
gunned to life and we forced our way through the oncoming traffic.
It could be reasonably asked ‘Why did I feel the need to cross
Bangkok on this particular day?’ Unlike so many ‘why’ questions on which I have
given up hope this particular question has an answer. I needed my visa extended
by a few days and the immigration office and my hotel had little geographically
in common. A motorcycle taxi seemed an inexpensive and reasonable way to bridge
this problem. It might also be asked ‘why didn’t I get off the rolling death
machine after the first thirty seconds when my immediate fate seemed obvious?’
Again this ‘why’ question has an answer: Poor judgment.
Instead of getting off the bike in a fit of common sense I clung
to the back thinking that at any moment we would arrive at the government
office. However, it was only after half an hour of terror that the massive
structure pierced the smog and I allowed myself to relax. I relaxed too soon.
Six lanes of oncoming traffic separated us from the entrance. I
saw nothing but a moving wall of angry cars, steel bumpers, and Toyota
logos. I don’t know what my driver saw but I am certain that he did not
see an obvious and suitable way around this problem. Instead we went through
it. Lurching forward, slamming the breaks and then lurching again we
progressed. When we broke free we found ourselves on a wide deserted section of
driveway approaching the massive government building. My sense of
disorientation was profound. Stranger still, we slowed to the pace of a baby’s
crawl to navigate a small speed bump in the road.
Inside the air-conditioned building the door to the immigration
office swung closed and locked. We were one minute too late. It was lunchtime
and no amount of sad and sorry looks was going to change that fact. It was now
time to wait.
Once hour later lunch ended, two hours after that I had my visa
extension, however, still lacking good judgment I caught the same motorcycle
taxi back.