Day 2 in India:
It took us about three hours to get up to our campsite up in the Himalayas.
In that three hour drive, we covered about 100 Kilometers. That is because we not only drove through military blocks, but school children crossing, cows crossing, goats and I am sure there was a chicken crossing somewhere along that road. We stopped for chai (which there is always time for) bought some veggies and of course our main course, an ugly white chicken that we named Zuba.
We stuck her in the back of the car between the tents and pots, and drove up to the 9 hut village by the river where we set up our two tents. Raleigh and I had our own sleeping tent
and a sleeping and dining tent for the men. Let me introduce you to the four men that we befriended in Kashmir:
Ali, our cook and a fierce competitor in Spoons
Latif, the calm Arabic looking man who showed us games with rocks and who was also our driver
Sohail, our trek guide who proposed to me on the tops of the Himalayas when we met the gypsies.
And of course there was John, our tour guide, our overseer who decided to stay the whole time with us in his fancy purple shirt, ironed jeans, and black loafers. In his high pitched voice that was always susceptible to hiccups, he was always trying to convince us to do something- swim in the lake, dance, not get kicked by a horse...you know, the usual.
We sat in the dining tent smoking the hookah (the hubbly bubbly as those strange British call it), had some chai, and then had some lunch prepared by Ali, who somehow in that little tent with the little fire and toolbox, makes the most amazing meals. Curried veggies, rice, chicken, pudding, and so much more. Delicious meals, which we of course eat with our hands. No, not with our hands, with out right hand- the "clean hand". I wonder if I should tell them that...nevermind...
Everything was prepared for us, served to us, and cleaned for us. All of it enjoyed in the company of these great men and the sound of the rushing fresh glacial waters. To be honest, I did not mind too much.
A bit of hiking, a bit of writing "Armenia" and "I love Daunce" on the remnants of a melting glacier, a little but of getting beat at every card game we taught the boys, and it was time to pass out in our mini tent.
Day 3 in India:
We woke up to a "continental breakfast" which we came to know as the staple of our mornings in India- two eggs (boiled or omelet style), white toast, butter, jam, and of course, chai. To prepare for our longer trek, Ali prepared us lunch, we said goodbye to Zuba, knowing that she would be in bad shape the next time we would see her, and we set off for the hills.
We came across many gypsy families that live on these mountaintops until the fierce winters force them to find shelter in the villages below. I wonder
what they think about life,
how they think about life, what their conversations are like during meals, how life simply works for them. I wonder what they think of us, what they would think if they saw the kind of life I live. I wonder a lot about who they are.
When we got to the top of one of the mountains, an old man wandered from his hut to us and we shared our lunch with him- our boiled potatoes, boiled carrots, boiled eggs and 6 sandwiches that consisted of a combination of butter, cucumbers and tomatoes. Not one of Ali's best or most creative meals I must admit.
It wasn't too much of a sacrifice to give up my meal to the gypsy man, this thin older man with dark brown eyes and a tan tunic over his dark skin. He happily took the nutritious sandwiches and dined with us on top of the hill whilst the horses ate nearby. Mealtime for all.
His sister and family saw us sitting nearby and joined us, walking out of their tree and mud hut to sit with us for an hour or two. There was an older woman and a younger one with two children (perhaps his wife and his two sons). The woman had a red scarf over her hair and she was maybe one of the most beautiful people I have seen. Maybe it was the simplicity of her life, the Himalayas in the background, the depth in her eyes that made her stand out so much, but she was truly captivating.
The old man took a nap. We played with the baby, making sure he didn't put horse poop in his mouth. We took pictures. We stared at the mountains and then back at each other over and over again, and we spent the afternoon in this kind of blissful quiet. In their quiet smiles and eyes, I saw stories of family, of hardship, of beauty, of a life of wandering gypsies who tend to their animals and their young for that is what they have to call their own. Maybe that is what eyes can say when they aren't tired of looking at computer screens or judging others. Maybe.
We left them still sitting up there, unaffected by our presence and our leaving, just sitting there, silently staring out at the endless hilltops and sky.
From the outside this may seem lazy, a waste of a day, sitting there doing nothing, not even talking. It might seem boring or maybe to some, reflective and deep. What it seemed to me though, was that to this family and to those living up there, that maybe the point of life is just to be. Not to be rich, be known, be something, but simply to be. To sit there on their hill, care for their horses, sheep and children, and be, well, human I suppose.
We came down the hill, refreshed and calm, talked about marriage (which was alwaaaays a topic of conversation), watched the river, ate Zuba and played a viscous game of Spoons before we went to sleep.
***
The next and last day of our trekking started out all too strangely.
It started with the horses. All good stories start with horses...except for the Trojans.
The hungry little horses surrounded our tent in the morning, grazing on what was left of the shrubbery near our campsite.
After playing a game of Durak (the most Russian part of me), Rals and I collected some grass to feed the poor little guys. After bonding with them and feeling good about ourselves, Raleigh noticed that one of the horse's reigns kept getting caught under its feet.
-Help him Anya.
Raleigh pleaded with me. Now what part of me decided that it was a good idea to deal with a horse's personal issue is beyond me. Maybe it was that one time I bonded with the horse I rode when I was 12 and the horse spent the majority of our romantic trot peeing everywhere or it could have been the one time I saw a horse in a movie and felt sorry for it. Whatever it was, without thinking I jumped into action.
In between the dining tent and our tent, the horse wandered, pathetically getting tangled in its ropes so I went up along our tent and the horse to help. Having been around horses for a total of 30 minutes in my entire life, I didn't know how wild horses are when they think you are coming up behind them. Let me share with you about walking behind a horse now lest you decide to in the near future, they don't like it. They really really don't.
Thinking that I was going to attack from behind, the horse defensively kicked up its front legs to gain momentum and in a spit second threw back its hind legs and nailed me right on the stomach, sending me crawling back to my audience of twenty: Raleigh, John, and 18 other snickering horses. I am sure I heard them snickering.
Embarrassment, pain, stupidity. You might ask me what I was feeling at that moment as I crawled back where everyone stood laughing at that one second that they would surely remember forever.
Let me tell you the only thing that I felt- the searing pain of a hoof on my abdomen, burning up my insides. Whoever thought that the horseshoe was a cute fashion accessory must never have been kicked by a horse.
Then John came to save the day
-Hey Anna, Anna.
-Yeah John?
-Don't walk behind the horse
Well thought out advice dear John, but your timing was a bit off.
There isn't much that can follow up a good horse-kick story except for a romantic late night boat ride back on the lake near Jupiter. A romantic ride with Raleigh, John, and of course the Backstreet Boys. Sometimes American culture comes back and haunts you in the strangest of ways.
It was a bit breezy, a bit cloudy, and ever so peaceful. With the soft swish of the paddle as John led us out to the middle of the lake and the Backstreet Boys serenading us on his phone, we came across a little boat with a light in the middle, like a lighthouse bringing in wayward fishermen in from the raging sea. Except this lighthouse was a BBQ boat bringing in wayward hungry travelers from the not so raging lake. Yup, lamb and chicken kebabs (for beef and pork are not easily found in India) grilled over little coals between the legs of a sweaty heavyset man wearing a dirty white tunic. There was a second man on his boat, a skinny little man at the front who maneuvered the boat to stay next to ours while we feasted. After our delicious and spicy meal, we handed back the skewers to the fat man (well aware that this BBQ could lead to the leaky stomachs we were warned about before coming to India) and we floated back to Jupiter. Back to life. Back to Reality.
It started with a horse and his kick, and ended with a lake BBQ on a stick.
India is amazing.
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