The Road to Happy Valley 1

                                  “Traveling light is less easy as soon as affection is involved.”
                                                                                           E.M. Forster, Apti
   


On the morning we left Little Tibet, there were still about two hundred surviving snow leopards in the mountains around us, the only living mammals not lining up for the battered wooden coach to Srinagar. If my predawn breakfast had not consisted almost entirely of Imodium, I would have missed out as well.
Robyn and Julie tried to break all the iced pancake puddles on our blind trudge down to the waiting bus. I had only enough energy to carry my pack.
We watched the sun rise on the snowcaps and the face of Leh Palace, waiting for the Brits to finish their morning tea. The reason the sun never set on the British Empire was because God didn't trust the British in the dark.
Our bus had ‘Argosy’ emblazoned on the side. We were jubilant have a place on her, ecstatic when the engine turned over and the driver began his forward grind through the gears. The desert ribbon of the NH 1D was only passable for three months of the year, and we were riding down the middle of it. The traveler in the seat across the aisle handed me half of his two headed-earphones from a small contraption he had brought from France. I’d never seen anything like it. He called it a ‘Walkman.’ It played cassettes. He shoved one in its mouth and pressed a button.
“Telegraph Road.” He said. And my head filled up with a haunting.

                 “A long time ago came a man on a track
                  Walking thirty miles with a sack on his back...
                  Well just believe in me baby and I'll take you away
                  From out of this darkness and into the day...”

“Dire Straits.” He said. I looked out, over the edge of the mountains, and nodded. Buddhist stupas erupted like new teeth along the ridges.
We stopped at a military post, to have our passports checked. I looked down the lineup to see an Indian army major, with his red beret and handlebar moustache and swagger stick, sitting at a makeshift desk along a precipice. He worked his way methodically through the passengers. The Brit who had taken the longest to finish his tea that morning was ahead of me. He handed his black passport to the major, who thumbed through it repeatedly, growing more impatient with each pass.
“Biza.” He said. “Bear is your biza?” The Englishman was calmly condescending.
“My dear chap.” He said. “I don’t need a visa. We used to own this place.”
But this was not France. He went to the back of the line. Dire Straits in the Himalayas.
I bought some petrified peanuts, and we reboarded our bus for the dizzy climb up the yellow and mauve Zanskar mountain switchbacked moonscape. We shuddered and sputtered over the Fotu-La, the highest road pass in the world, over four thousand meters into the thin air. My French friend took his earphones back, and descended under a clothesline of multicolored prayer flags, to the Lamayuru Monastery, just below the summit. Our bus broke down, possibly in karmic punishment for not joining him. We all got off to push start the Argosy back into life. There wasn’t enough oxygen at that altitude for both of us, so we gave up ours in the resuscitation attempt. It would prove to be a recurring requirement.
An Indian army TATA convoy lay broken before us, stalled by the death of the weakest truck in the chain. We passed it on the outside, inches from the void. Eventually up and over the twelve thousand foot Namika-La, Argosy pulled into a heavily militarized Muslim town, just on dark.
Kargil was a crossroad haven of hustlers, its muddy main street mostly eateries and crashpads. We were pulled along with the other travelers to the dorm in the Chinese restaurant, but we had spotted something better, and made a break for it. Down on the green poplar banks of the gray Suru River was the three star International Hotel, where we secured a three bed room for 45 rupees. The roaring whitewater of the torrent outside seemed like it was flowing inside. When our shower wouldn’t work, the owner took an axe to it. It didn’t work any better after that. We secured our packs, and entered the cute ineptitude of the hotel restaurant. I knew I was starting to recover because my appetite had returned. I was ready to reengage. Until the menu arrived.
“What’s wrong, Wink?” Asked Robyn. “You look terrible.” I pointed to the first menu item. Semen Souply.
“Just order something else, mate.” Added Julie. I told her I needed to know, and motioned the waiter back to the table.
“What’s that?” I asked him, pointing to the entrée in question. He seemed only too happy to explain.
“Oh my.” He began. “That is Semen Souply.” He looked satisfied with his explanation. Robyn and Julie winced. I asked him what it was, specifically.
“We use only the finest semen.” He explained.
“I’m sure.” I said, and ordered the vegetable soup and omelette. We learned later that it was semolina soup, and that the owner was having trouble figuring out why it wasn’t a more popular menu choice. After his repair job on our shower, there was no courage to put him right.
For the first time in a week, I slept with a full belly, and without having to climb ladders. The white noise of the rapids outside our open window took me deep.
Sixteen years later, the big sleep I left here would be blown apart by the Kargil War, a Pakistani invasion attempt. Over just a few months, several thousand soldiers on both sides were killed, in battles on ridges overlooking NH 1D, the strategic Leh-Srinagar road we were travelling on. At one point, US intelligence had imaged Pakistan’s movement of nuclear weapons to forward deployments. Chiang Kai-shek used to attribute his good health to soup made from white doves. He had lived a long way from Kargil.