Louis and I launched out of LAX, dressed very much like what I would imagine a military contractor would. Between our construction boots, Louis’ Iraqi flag baseball hat, and my flannel/leather jacket combo we certainly received stares as we spoke Arabic in the security line. After a long and comfortable flight on Virgin Atlantic (which we highly recommend) we arrived at Heathrow airport in London. As somewhat of a chain smoker, I do not favor flights over three hours. Irritated by my nicotine patch which has given me three blisters by the time we arrive in Heathrow, I am more than anxious to get into the airport and find the smoking section. Europe is full of smokers, I thought. They must have a smoking section.
Wrong. As one could imagine, I was not terribly pleased at the thought of a 6 hour layover in an airport too cheap to add a room for smokers, just to board an 8 hour flight which again, prohibits smoking. I intend to write a very strongly worded letter.
In need of a place to kill time, we make our way to the nearest/cheapest bar to post up for awhile. A few drinks and a chili potato later, our waitress is beginning to notice our squatting habit. Wandering the expansive refugee camp that Heathrow Airport seems to resemble, we attempt to keep ourselves occupied during this unpleasant layover
We board our next flight which will finally deliver us to Delhi. Unlike our previous flight, this flight path took us over some very interesting countries (especially to us) such as Afghanistan and Pakistan. From the air we could not spot a single city, only strings of farming towns sandwiched between overwhelming mountains.
After arriving in Delhi we took care of all the normal visa paperwork and went straight for the Inter-State Bus Terminal (ISBT) in Old Delhi. Our study abroad program at Delhi University didn’t start for 5 days so we decided to try and make it to Kashmir. After some poor planning and a few drinks later we were heading to Darmasala, the famous Tibetan area in North India. Our thought was that Kashmir is north, and so is Darmasala, so how could we possibly go wrong?
Way wrong. Darmasala and consequently McLeod (the town a stone throw north of Darmasala where the Dalai Lama lives) are surrounded by large, uncompromising Himalayan Mountains. After sleeping in quite possibly the shadiest bus depot I have ever been in (where dogs sniff sleeping people to see if they’re dead) and a 12 hour bus right on the “ordinary” line, we arrived tired, hungry, and dirty as can be imagined.
Tangent. I was warned against taking the “ordinary” bus line by some Indians at the ISBT, but I insisted that Louis and myself were hardcore explorers of the road less traveled and bought us two cheap “ordinary” tickets. The bus trip began with the bus leaving before Louis as actually in the bus, when I had to pull him in the door onto the bus as crowded as a commuter during rush hour. This reality never changed…for 12 hours. We had to strap our large bag on the roof of not-so-structurally-sound bus-like automobile. Louis was rather nervous about this until I reminded him of the rope that I always bring. Yea, that’s right, we used the stupid rope. “What are we gonna use rope for?” “You never know, those guys in the movies always have rope and they always end up using it.” If you don’t get the reference, watch Boondock Saints immediately.
So we arrive in Darmasala super early in the morning and realize we can’t get to Kashmir from where we are. It was a beautiful place, aside from their rampant monkey problem (see relevant post), where you can sit on a rooftop, eat lunch, have a beer, and listen to the Tibetan monks chant from an adjacent window. After lots of complaining and another couple drinks we decide to continue chasing our Kashmir aspirations and jumped on yet another 14 hour “ordinary” bus ride to a town called Manali which is the only town that can connect us to the bus line needed to get to Leh, a central town in Kashmir.
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