How Things Change

Has McLeod Ganj been good?  No.  It's been great.

This has been an ideal spot to stop and smell the roses for a little bit.  I set out to write a bunch of articles, and hunkered down in front of this little desk I've been very productive.  I think the biggest aid has been the fact that it rains almost all the time here.  It just pours for hours on end.  The sound of falling rain is especially calming, but more importantly, it doesn't make me feel guilty about staying inside working during a sunny day.  The other plus is that, as a traveller town, there is a wide variety of internet cafes and restaurants with a good choice of Indian, Tibetan, or Western food (and even Thai and Chinese food, but they just never really seem to get those right here).  And many, many freshly made desserts.  Enough to lead to a dessert problem.

I realize now that I came to India without much of a plan.  All it consisted of was something along the lines of "I want to see India".  Whereas I've been inspired by photos of Tibet and stories of the KKH and hiking in Nepal for a long time, all I know about India is the Taj Mahal and the Bhopal accident.  I've been doing lots of reading and altering my first stab at a bike route.  Cut out Lucknow in favour of the erotic temples of Khajuraho?  Is a journey to India complete without a few nights at one of these "spiritual communities" called ashrams?  A few more days of editing my work and I've got a nice little route planned across the top of India.

Then, this morning, 83-year-old Mary Moody, one of my 4 favourite grandparents, passed away silently in her sleep.  She will be missed.

I'm alright, so don't worry about clogging up the comments section of this post with anything, but I imagine my mum and my grandpa aren't great.  It's odd for something like this to happen when you're so far away.  It happened so quickly, to be sure.  But the last time I saw 'Mama' was around Christmas time over 8 months ago, and there's a disconnect from all of this that doesn't make it seem real.

Travel is all about decision making.  Whenever I have a hard time justifying a big expense on my trip, I turn to the classic reasoning that in the long run you'll forget about the money but you'll remember the place.  It's always been true.  I applied that same reasoning here: that the support I can (hopefully) offer my family now is more important than the cost and time to make it all happen (and there will be some help from travel insurance).

So in a strange twist of fate that doesn't even seem real, by this Sunday I'll be back in sunny Toronto sipping beers by the pool and doing whatever a son is supposed to do during a time of tragedy.  I guess I'll see you all there!

I leave tomorrow, once I figure out what to do about the bike, and shorty after a morning walk to the village chorten (that's a Tibetan sort of tower that represents Buddha) to make an incense offering for the old lady who made us soup, made us laugh, and made us proud: our beloved 'Mama'.

A Passage to India

Breath a sign of relief Aunties, for your nephew is now safely in India.  And what a crossing it was.  

The day began late, with Malik, the owner of my guesthouse in Lahore, trying to convince me to stay for a few more days: "God does not want you to go" he said, referring to the light rain.  Apparently God had a real problem with my departure because as soon I had assembled my bags on the bike an immense monsoon rain had begun.  I really didn't want to carry the bike back up the steep steps to the guesthouse, so I plunged into the deluge.

Imagine the heaviest rain that happens at the peak of a summer thunderstorm.  Now imagine that intensity of rain lasting two hours and you'll have an idea of the monsoon.  I can't imagine a drainage system that could handle such huge amounts of water, and the streets soon become rivers and puddles of uncomfortably brown water.  I fear that my cherished Birkenstocks will be added to the list of things that will be thrown out as soon as I get home.  You might think that such a rain would be torture to bike in, but it was surprisingly enjoyable.  I was dreading another day of biking in the heat, so the rain was perfect relief.  It was that warm rain that doesn't chill you to the bone, that type of rain that makes you want to forget what you're doing and go running through the streets (sort of like the first snowfall, since I'm explaining this to Canadians).  You're soaked within a minute but everything is waterproofed so you just raise your arms in the air and take it all in.

Well, almost everything was waterproofed.  Unfortunately my money belt's plastic lining was not closed, so it's contents were completely soaked.  Not a big deal since there wasn't much in my money belt to worry about, except of course my passport.  And so it came to pass that even my dirty underwear were safely waterproofed but my passport, the one thing you can't live without while travelling, looked like it had spent a rinse cycle in the washer.  Completely soaked.  And on a border crossing day no less.  I wish I were pulling a Greg Mortenson and making this all up.  I was tsked-tsked by every guard on the way, shaking their heads in disapproval as they tried to open my passport, often just giving up and waving me along.  Pakistan stamped me out (no electricity at the border station).  On the other side, in India, the head guard told me "your passport is completely spoiled" and started on a lecture about the importance of that document.  I don't know what happens in such a situation: can India force me back to Pakistan even though my visa is no longer valid?  Is this how Tom Hank's The Terminal happened?  As it worked out, apologetically listening to the lecture improved the man's mood and he heartily welcomed me into the country.  Seeing that I was soaked, another guard invited me for tea, where we talked about India, women, and money, which seem to be the three favourite topics in this country.  I then indulged in my first beer in months, a Thunderbolt, which the label assured me was Extra Strong.  I think I can safely say that the Thunderbolt will only strike once on this trip.

Every evening at the Wagah border - that is, the only open border between Pakistan and India - the flags are lowered and the gates are shut in an elaborate ceremony that has become a bit of an attraction.  It's almost like watching a sporting event, for there are grandstands and flag-wavers and busloads of fans on either side.  After an hour of Hindi-pop pump-up, the drama began.  Both sides have their tallest soldiers decked out with tall fan-type hats, full uniform, and clicky shoes.  They march around in a scene that must have been the inspiration for Monty Python's Ministry of Silly Walks, kicking their feet up to to touch their hats.  It was all the more funny cause there were some puddles from the monsoon so the Indian guy was splashing water all over.  They get right up in the face of the soldiers across the border, eyes wide in serious stares.  There's some bugling, some load grunting, and the flags are lowered simultaneously before the gates are slammed shut.  The entire time the crowd is chanting and cheering.  India and Pakistan aren't exactly friends, so I don't know if the ceremony is a fierce stand-off between enemies or a big show for the people.  Either way, it was quite a show.

I arrived in the nearest town, Amritsar, after dark and proceeded to the Golden Temple, the holiest place in the Sikh religion and one of the most beautiful buildings I've ever seen.  I think it would be culturally insensitive to make any Sikh puns, since I'm not Sikh-ing to making any enemies with this blog (couldn't resist!).  The big thing with the Sikhs is inclusiveness, so the temple has a big free hotel open for pilgrims and serves free food to any and all who are visiting.  I was quickly ushered into a small crowded room for foreigners, complete with fans, washing machine, and filtered water.  It's certainly a quick way for a religion to make some friends.  I admit that I didn't know much about Sikhs before arriving and well, don't really know much after leaving, except that they like to cover their heads.  They seem like a good bunch of people, very friendly and relaxed.  Inside the temple, in the centre room there are a bunch of people singing a hypnotic sort of chant that seems like it might have inspired the Beatles during their Seargent Pepper Days.  The central room had a man with a long beard, sitting next to a fan and an emergency light just in case of power loss, just reading a large book.  Walking around the pool that surrounds the temple afterwards, I couldn't help being pleased with the whole day but also really swept up in how foreign everything felt.  And I think that's sort of the essence of travelling in India, just letting yourself get swept off your feet by something you know nothing about.  Nah, maybe that is the essence of life.

I've now biked two days from Amritsar, back into the god-damn hills again, to a place called McLeod Ganj.  This is the home of the Tibetan government in exile, and a spot where many Tibetans trek to (in secret) from China.  Having heard so much about this place while I was in Tibet, I feel that the circle is now complete.  It most certainly is not Tibet, more like Disneyland does Tibet, and a hugely popular backpacking destination.  It's strange to be back in a popular tourist area after so long out in the mountains.  Today I bumped into some guys I met in Amritsar who are just out of high school, I feel like they should have a chaperone or something.  This place is big on holistic stuff and meditation and from where I was sitting at lunch I watched a wooden pipe flute vendor do a solid stream of business which is funny because probably the last thing I'd want to buy would be a wooden pipe flute.

You can't really not come to this place, especially after spending time in Tibet, and it's pretty much on the way to my next destination.  I was looking for a place to rest for a week and catch up and try to do some writing, and this fits that nicely.  There's fast internet, good range of food, and it's much cooler than the plains.  And there's always the possibility that maybe, just maybe, I'll bump into the Dalai Lama on his way to work and he'll give me a dirty look or rather, the Buddhist equivalent which I guess would amount to a pat on the back and an invitation for tea.  Ah yes Happy Belated Indian Independence day to all of you, hopefully you had a butter chicken and played some cricket.

Reunion in Karachi

Here on my final night in Pakistan, the electricity has yet to fail.  An auspicious event.

I just arrived back in Lahore from Karachi, where I visited my friend Salman, a wily old coot from my donning days who happens to share the name of a popular Bollywood movie star.  Apparently when I emailed Salman the first time and told him I was going to be in Pakistan (well, more specifically, I wrote "I am coming to Pakistan and I am coming to find you") he dismissed it because he thought I had been out drinking and then sending drunken messages.  But, on the other hand, it is pretty remarkable to bump into a friend on the other end of the world.  (And oh yes, Lahore is a nice place too and deserves its own post but alas, is not going to get one).

Karachi is a massive metropolos of 18 million, way down on the southern coast of the country.  It's a shorter flight from Islamabad to Kabul (Afghanistan) than it is to Karachi.  It has bigger buildings and more Pizza Huts than the rest of the country, and in an unrelated vein, an elegant mausoleum of Pakistan's founder, Muhammad Jinnah.  Complimenting the Pakistan city-touring itinerary of "see a mosque and eat an ice cream", in Karachi we made a point of stopping to dip our feet in the Arabian Sea.

Salman's family welcomed me as a son, and for a few short days it was almost like being back at home: a stocked fridge, home cooked meals with the rest of the family, playing video games with Salman and his younger brother, driving around the city to meet friends for dinner, celebrating birthdays with cake and candles.  It reminded me of what I have to look forward to when I go home.  For all the incredible memories and breathtaking sights you experience while travelling, it's being inside a happy home when you truly reflect that, yeah, life is good.

An apt segue, cause life in Karachi the city is not actually that great right now.  For the past six months there has been an outbreak of ethnic violence that has gripped national news and left thousands dead.  Stuff like kids getting mowed down by gunfire because of the language they speak.  During our phone conversation before I booked my flight, Salman, usually all jokes, took on a rare serious tone when we discussed safety.  A city as large as Karachi is always unpredictable, but in an established neighbourhood to the east of the city, their home is thankfully a world apart from the strife.  Salman was careful to keep me far away from anywhere that might present some sort of risk, and the Karachi I saw was chic and lively, highlighting the fact that I have barely anything in my traveling wardrobe that passes for chic or lively.

Ramadan continues to fascinate me, and every day I learn a bit more.  Today I joined the family for Sehar, the first meal of the day that is consumed before sunup.  The 4am wakeup is not kind, especially when a power outtage has knocked out fans and lights. Not much was said during the meal, though it was pretty iconic being lit only by candles. I am again struct by how religion manifests itself in such quiet ways.  Here is an honest, working family, like so many other families, that without complaint will spend an entire month enduring not only a strange eating schedule but also a strange sleeping schedule.  Waking at 4am, a night of uninterrupted sleep is unthinkable, and even though we all disappear back into beds after eating, I think you basically spend the entire month fatigued.  Words like patience and self-control take on new meaning.  This is all of course coming from a guy who has not had a successful day of fasting yet, and I remain a tourist on the sidelines, cheering everyone on.

I'm now filled with that eve-of-a-new-border-crossing excitement.  The shakeup that comes with new money, new language, new culture and new food is what makes travel so engrossing, and crossing on land with everything you need hanging from a battered bicycle is this sort of T.E. Lawrence-esque dream.  Tomorrow starts a new phase of the trip, a 1500km ride across the north of India and eventually up into the mountains of Nepal.  I have a map with a scale not much better than a map of the world, a fresh stock of Snickers bars, and a robust attitude that knows there are going to be a lot of things that surprise me in the coming weeks.  Goodbye Pakistan, you'll always hold a special place in my heart.  I look forward to the day when you achieve the greatness you've almost given up on, and the respect from the rest of the world that you so deserve.

Wheels down, Lahore

There's this dream of pulling into your final destination triumphantly and holding your bike above your head in success.  It never really seems to work out that way.  We arrived at Lahore yesterday in a whimper, trying not to collide with something - vehicle, person, or donkey - as we navigated the unmarked streets.  We were hot, hungry, thirsty, and tired; but we had made it.

Islamabad and Lahore, about 300km apart, are linked by the Grand Trunk Road (GT Road).  It sounds like any old highway or Brett Hull-sponsored toboggan but it's actually an ancient trading route across the subcontinent dating back 2300 years.  That sort of history astounds me, most of all because unlike the Inca Trail or the Acropolis, the GT Road is still doing what it's always done: connecting people across vast distances (so that they can sell carpets and stuff).

Most people were astonished that we would try to bike the GT Road, as it traverses the hot, humid plains.  Early on we were told the heat is "pathetic", like "standing in front of an open furnace".  All good things to hear.  The situation was complicated by the start of Ramadan, the Muslim holy month of fasting from dawn until dusk.  Trendy city dwellers told us that restaurants would be open, which is completely true, in the city.  In the rural areas along the GT Road, every promising eatery was closed.  We took frequent breaks to gas station shops to get out of the sun and into some shade, if not some air conditioning.  We survived on cold drinks and chips and chocolate, which we had to eat like criminals while hidden in a corner or in the trees off the road.

Ramadan is an interesting event to be part of.  From my Catholic upbringing, I've always associated fasting with suffering: Jesus had a bad day, so, you're going to have a bad one too (or, more accurately, you're going to have a great day and eat meat anyway).  Ramadan is based on the moon, and everyone must be pissed off when it falls during the long daylight days of summer.  But as one guy told us piously, Ramadan is his favourite time of year, as it allows him to be closer to God.  The most interesting part is after the sun goes down, when the first meal of the day, Iftar, is consumed with friends and family after praying together.  The streets go quiet except for a few security guards mowing down small plates of food.  

Did the plains defeat us?  Maybe.  We relented after a day and a half (halfway) and took a shared van to the outskirts of Lahore.  As soon as the bikes were loaded a police cruiser appeared and seemed to solicite some sort of bribe for carrying us.  After, we were told they asked for 10000 rupees ($10), but then that the driver only paid 400 rupees ($4).  That was more than alright with us, though it was a fortune by Pakistani standards.  We handed our driver the money, there was some debate among the crowded van, and then they handed us back a bunch of change: "we give you a discount, only 100 rupees extra [$1]".  Pretty honest people here.  It's tough to say if the ride was an improvement: the van was low so we had to hunch a bit, we were hungry and thirsty and it would have been very rude to indulge in front of all the fasting people.  And then they stuffed 26 people into that van, four people to a bench seat.  It might be the most uncomfortable I've ever been.

Islamabad and Lahore couldn't be more different.  Islamabad is a planned city, built in self-contained grids with utilitarian numbering.  Each grid has its own market (where I found some very current Lonely Planet guides, see picture) and mosque and the streets are quiet and pedestrian-friendly.  But with no clear downtown it seemed a bit soulless, like a giant Scarborough (or more appropriately, a giant Brampton).  Thinking back to the mess of vehicles in Bangkok, and the gridlock in the highways around Beijing, Islamabad is certainly one of Asia's most organized cities.  We biked around the government area, past quite a few road checks and soldiers in sand-bag enclosures.  The Parliament and Prime Minister's House were enclosed by a wide fence with serious armed guards every 30 ft, and it got me thinking about democracy being something that needs to be defended with guns.

We haven't seen much of Lahore, but what we did see was a mess of people, cool old buildings, and an air of the old British days.  It's impossible to follow all the activity on the streets, or to photograph it while you're passing through; you just kind of live it, adding your own objectives to those of the thousands of moving people.  It's a long way from the tidy SmartCentre plazas of the Toronto suburbs.  I look forward to exploring a bit more, but after a day of rest.  We are staying in the second nicest place in town, called the Avari.  We came through high security into an opulent foyer filled with well-dressed staff.   In a white shirt stained permanently grey, pants with white sweat stains along every seam, and basically looking like homeless people, we were greeted warmly, upgraded to the business floor, and treated to complimentary cookies, cake, and mangos.  The internet works, there is a sitting area with snacks out in the hall, and I have yet to explore the swimming pool.  I realize that I have been away from the comforts of home for quite awhile, and the pancakes with maple syrup, omelette, hash browns, and cereal were all luxuries I haven't been able to get my hands on for six months.  I like to think that I ate enough this morning to make the hotel regret giving us the free breakfast buffet.

Tim flies home late tonight, after totalling 1200km across Pakistan.  I can only hope he'll one day want to ride a bike again.  I'm going to wait around for about a week, exploring Lahore, picking up my passport in Islamabad, and then visiting a friend down in Karachi.  None of that, for a change, will be on bicycle.

A night in "the Galis"

Feeling good after a great day of biking today.  There are two ways from Abbottabad to Islamabad: one along the busy, smoggy end of the KKH and the other through the hill stations, which were British summer retreats to escape the heat of the city.  Despite an intimidating 1600m climb, we opted for the route through the hills.  I doubt any of my descriptions of the roads here are convincing anyone to plan a bicycle trip to Pakistan.

Climb we did.  By our first break after 19km we were both dripping in sweat.  Ice-cold Pepsi and Halal Lays chips never tasted so good.  As we got higher the road got steeper but the air became cleaner and noticeably cooler.  We were geared up for a climb and it was for the most part over after 30km, when we reached the top of the hills and a chic vacation city called Nathiagali.  There we had delicious pizza and were preached to a bit about religion and were given free Mountain Dew.  -Gali means mountain pass and most of these little towns are at the top of a big hill, with all sorts of impressive villas scattered in the forested slopes below.  It's not a fru-gali area, think of it as Pakistan's Muskoka.  Kashmir is a stone's throw away.  And there are monkeys, which seemed friendly enough as we fed them apples.  That is, until Tim tried to feed one by hand and it growled menacingly.  All my monkey-fear came back.  We are in a spectacular hotel at Changlagali, this would be a $300-a-night property back home.  It's right next to the Prime's Minister's brother's house; well, one of them.

Once again we were welcomed as heros wherever we went.  A few times we were basically mobbed by people wanting pictures, along with the requisite questions about our trip and looks of shock when they fully understand the distance we are travelling.  I think I waved to every single vehicle today.  Fun quotes: "you are very silky people" and "I love Jesus!"  Some people drive by and just ask where we are from.  After we respond with Canada, they cheerfully and sincerely say "Thank-you" and continue on.  I wonder what happens if you answer with the USA.  Many people here have an uncle or sister or something in Canada, often in Toronto.  I imagine that even though these wealthy people in Pakistan are leaving beautiful villas behind to live in a semi-detached in Mississauga with a low-paying job, it's still the ultimate success.  Canada is well-known and well-liked and I've never been prouder to live in a country that provides such a welcoming home to so many people of the world.  In fact, the more I travel the more I conclude that Toronto is one of the best cities to live in.  But then, food factors a lot into that choice and it's still unclear exactly how much damage Rob Ford can do.

On our first day in Pakistan we spoke to a Karachi reporter, and he took some footage for what we thought was some sort of documentary.  Apparently not, as several people told us that they saw us on the news and on the sports channel.  Internet (as well as electricity and the availability of beef) continue to be unreliable so I haven't had a good chance to look for the video online.  In the meantime we're trying not to let the fame go to our heads.

Now, Abbottabad.  Easily the biggest city we have been in so far, the bazaar is a busy, network of colourful shops.  Many cloth vendors.  Though not big cloth buyers, we liked the place.  The approach to the city was sort of bleak, and the smog, piles of garbage, and heavy traffic are likely a preview of what is to come.  We did a bit of half-hearted searching for bin Laden's encampment, but apparently it's a bit out of town.  We've met a few people who say he's been dead for awhile, and a few who have property near his encampment that has plunged in value.  There's never been a better time to buy in Abbottabad! 

We were approached by a man, claiming to be a plain-clothed cop, who asked to see our documents.  Now in "Safe Travel 101" that's a big no-no, and I held out saying that we could go to the nearby police station.  He correctly guessed that we were staying at the nicest hotel in town (the Hotel Sarban if you are wondering), and his words "We'll see you at the hotel tonight" made us more than a little uncomfortable.  The hotels that we stay in have big gates and 24-hour guards usually so safety wasn't a concern, it was just a bit unnerving.  The hotel guys explained that there are a lot of police in the city after the whole bin Laden thing, and sure enough, I was questioned by another "cop" just outside the hotel later that night as I was enjoying a few kebabs (well maybe more than a few, but at 6 cents each it's hard to hold back).  This guy immediately produced a badge and was very friendly after I explained our bike route.  He was most concerned why we were in Abbottabad, and I think the country is just on the lookout for reporters and such, which is fair.  The bin Laden raid was pretty embarassing for this country, and I imagine if the US did something like that to China there would be police and tanks and censorship everywhere.  I guess we should just consider it fortunate that they got bin Laden before hitting the debt limit and defaulting and sending the entire planet into economic chaos.

Tomorrow we plunge back to the plains, and the heat, for good in what should be a day of only downhill.  They never are.  We'll be pulling into Islamabad, the capital, sometime in the afternoon, and maybe we'll see a mosque and have an ice cream.  Doesn't get much better than that.