Part II:

I conduct a very premium search (of myself.)

Note: I’m having trouble writing this one. I am going to post some of my journal entries from this part, and I’m sorry if it’s a bit jumbled — the intensity of the experience keeps trying to keep me from writing this down.

August 2nd, 2010: Leh

G. and I have decided that instead of rushing from place to place, we will just stay in Leh! I’ll probably fly back, and he’ll probably suffer his way back to Delhi via three days of buses. I love how things sometimes just work out splendiferously while traveling. You find these spaces within where the timing is perfect — you meet cool people, or the weather is perfect, or it just feels right — and that is what I think the package tours with ultra-planned itineraries are missing — the ability to stop when you recognize a special place. I love finding these moments on the road, and I love that G. seems to live solely on this premise. Leh has so much to offer. I want to soak it all in. I love this town.

August 6th 2010: Leh

G. and I decided to go on a solo trek, finding homestays along the way. We decided on a five day trek — taking us over two 5000+m passes (16,000+ ft) — stocked up on supplies and made our way for a 7am bus. The bus was absolutely slammed with people, crushed together on a hot, steamy morning, but after Ukraine we were prepared for all eventualities. After thirty minutes of waiting, we learned that the bus would not go that day, as flooding had taken out a bridge and the road would be indefinitely closed.

We did not fret. These things happen in India. We changed our plans and decided on a three day trek from Spitok to Zingchin and eventually to Stok, taking us up one 4600–5000m pass. We had no choice but to walk from Spitok to Zingchin, which ended up being pretty brutal in its scope. All in all, we probably only hiked about 10–12 miles, but it was always upwards, totally exposed and almost completely barren, yet necessary to insert us into the pocket of the valley that would allow us to traverse up and over the pass to Stok. We roughed it, remarking that the following day would make up for one shitty day of hiking.

Our homestay in Zingchin turned out to be just what we needed: a very nice hospitable lady, a warm meal, and a nice couple to chat with from Israel. Completely exhausted, we relaxed with some nice marsala chai, chatted for a spell, then slept early with intentions of another long day.

As we set out the next morning, however, we quickly learned that something was amiss. The night before had brought heavy rains with so much lightning in the sky you could practically read a book by it, and the river had swelled to great heights. All of the guides who had brought groups with them were turning back, as there were at least three river crossings that day, and with the river as it was, crossing could prove dangerous and even fatal.

We decided (smartly) that if the guides were turning around, then we’d best turn around too. The Israeli couple decided to go on (and ended up almost dying, as we found out later.) We macked back down our monotonous and lengthy trip from the day before, covering what took us five to six hours the first day in about two hours. Upon our arrival back in Spitok, we sat patiently for an hour or so (it’s India) only to learn that there were no buses going to Leh that day because some sort of disaster had occurred.

Luckily, we managed to find a ride with a very generous man who drove us back to Leh for free and informed us of what had transpired. While we were up in the pass, the worst disaster in the history of Leh had occurred: a cloudburst, as he called it, had sent a river of water (Leh only gets 90 mm (3½ inches) of rain a year, so this storm completely dislodged the mountain) destroying almost the entire lower part of town and many of the surrounding villages instantly in a giant mudslide. Hundreds of people had died, instantly killed and buried by this wave of mud — mostly migrant workers who were sleeping on the first floors of the buildings in the lower part of town. We also learned that around 35 backpackers (foreigners) had died while on treks, and the weight of this information — the idea that had we chosen a different trek that could have been us — weighed on us heavily.

And as we entered the lower part of town, the bus station where we had left from not even a day before was now completely buried. Absolutely devastated. Completely missing. The silence was overwhelming as we drove through town, with every shop shut and locked; with most of the town working frantically to rescue and recover the people struck by this tragedy. Others wandered the streets aimlessly, not really comprehending what had happened, searching for something unknown.

My one regret of this day was not immediately going to help. G. and I were completely exhausted from our two days of intense hiking, and by the time we were able to secure accommodations (everyone was stuck in town and we were lucky to say in the living room of the place we had stayed previously — the family we had stayed with before extending such a great favor to us) we just fell over from exhaustion. I just wish I would have pulled even more out of myself; found some way to work through it all, even though I honestly don’t think I could have done it.

The next day we arose early, ate a quick breakfast and jumped right into the relief effort, working tirelessly all day to remove and recover, remove and recover. We worked hand in hand with Ladakhi’s, foreigners from all around the world and people from neighboring villages, all who had come to lend a hand to those who needed it most. We cleaned out houses, moved debris and shoveled mud, doing what we could to provide access to the heavy machinery. We worked and worked and worked.

Every day we worked — sometimes in Leh and sometimes in neighboring villages that were also affected. And every day we returned to Leh, walking up the long hill to the area where all the foreigners stayed — dirty, tired and silent. And every day as we walked up the hill, we passed cafés where tourists sat, drinking coffee, eying us warily — sitting on their hill of comfort, oblivious to the devastation and destruction around them. As we sat at breakfast one morning, we heard a man from another table complaining to the waiter about the lack of menu items, angered and irritated because he couldn’t get a certain type of fruit with his breakfast. I sat there completely stunned. I can understand how you could ignore disaster that happens worlds away — but a mere kilometer or two? I wanted to walk up and shake him; to take his hand and show him the bodies they were dragging out right down the road and then ask him how important his watermelon was. It made me sick.

And that day I was interviewed twice by international media outlets. The first was when I was walking with a guy who had been working in the hospitals, doing triage with the minimal amount of supplies. The interviewer started with me, asked me a few general questions, then asked: ”Have you seen or recovered any dead bodies?” I told him that he was missing the point — that every set of hands was important, no matter what they were doing. He then turned to the other guy and asked him the same question, and when he told them what he was doing; that he had seen bodies; that he had worked around the people who died, their attention totally shifted. They had found their sound byte.

The second interview was a CNN local correspondent. She asked me a few questions, then delivered this gem:

Correspondent: Do you feel a special connection with the Ladakhi people that makes you want to help them?

Me: Um, special connection? I don’t care who they are, I’m here helping because that’s what you do when a disaster happens. That should be the natural reaction. The question you should be asking is: “Why are there tourists back in Leh who are sitting and drinking coffee with absolutely no intention of helping?” That’s what is unusual to me.

What kind of question is that, really? What — if they were black, would I not help them? As I heard more questions like this; talked to more people; watched the coverage, I began to really realize how stories like this are crafted into the news cycle, how suffering and humanity is lost through sound bytes and repeating video clips. (Remember how many times they showed the 9/11 clips?).

Then she asked if I’d seen any bodies.