The Caravan Returns

It feels an age since we left our life of roads and sands and cities at the break of dawn. We have been reconditioned back to the ‘normal life’, no matter how hard we tried to maintain the day-to-day wonder of the road, once home, we soon found ourselves dozing off into a sort of autopilot; working, eating and playing with a somewhat monotonous predictability. But, every now and then, I hear a sound or smell a scent that transports me to Istanbul or Samarkand or Rome and I am stirred from my daze, reminded to keep moving and changing and learning, reminded that we don’t necessarily have to accept this monotony. As a little testament to these moments, I have cobbled together the short film below; it is a messy jumble of video fragments from the trip, it’s hazy and disjointed but perhaps captures something of the wonder we felt on that epic journey.

I did make notes for a final blog post which, during the madness of our return, I never got round to publishing. I came across them the other day and felt rather sorry for them so have copied a section below. It was written on a train from Berlin to Paris a few days before our return and (perhaps unsurprisingly) I appear to be on my soapbox:

I suppose the thing that always comes up is what a lucky lot we are. And I don't just mean us, I mean you too. You were born into a world with opportunity, opportunity to work, to travel and to a certain extent, to do whatever you want. We all take this so much for granted that we so often throw all these opportunities away, accept mediocrity and settle down into lives that we are constantly told we should lead. We are among the tiny minority in the world that don't have to accept this and yet we still do. It's a waste I tell you! We both began this trip with the thought in the back of our heads that this was the last one, that we had reached 30 and that we really should be settling down. Having spent a year completely detached from our own societal rules, I now have no idea why we would constrain ourselves in this manner and plan away our futures. The idea of 'settling down' is by no means a bad thing but the idea of giving up your dreams because it's about time you did is madness. So what am I saying? It's my proximity to France, it's making me talk philosophical nonsense (which is, incidentally, what I love most about France, the freedom to talk philosophical nonsense without people accusing you of pretension!). Perhaps what I'm saying is LIVE! LIVE like you've never lived before because we'll all be dead before we ever worked out what it was exactly that made us happy. There, I'll shut up now. Sorry about that.

I've just been reading Three Men in a Boat by Jerome K. Jerome and I will finish with a quote from it (that we also recently saw scrawled across a bar in Venice). It by no means sums everything up but it somehow catches the spirit of what we have both learnt over the past 12 months:

"Let your boat of life be light, packed with only what you need - a homely home and simple pleasures, one or two friends, worth the name, someone to love and someone to love you, a cat, a dog, and a pipe or two, enough to eat and enough to wear, and a little more than enough to drink; for thirst is a dangerous thing"

On Frozen Roads

I was roughly shoved in the back and told to follow the other men outside. We walked through the snow to a small garage crammed with saws and axes and a noisily buzzing fridge. I had no idea what we were here for but I smiled my best smiles and nodded my best nods. A grizzled man with a drunken red face reached down and produced a bottle of some vile reeking poison, 'home-made!' said another. Was it a Molotov cocktail? Was I about to be axed to death in a cellar? Where even was I? Well, I'm afraid the answer to the first two questions is rather disappointingly 'no' and the answer to the third is 'at an 80th birthday party in Slovenia'. It greatly amused me that the men retired post-dinner to pass noxious spirits in the garage, perhaps the flavour of rosemary brandy just isn't the same unless accompanied by the scent of man and power tools. Though I'm not usually into such gender apartheid, I was very glad I wasn't inside with the women, watching a two-year-old and a four-year-old perform plays, so I took my slugs of spirits gladly and grunted (and shoulder-punched) with the best of them.

We were staying with a family just outside the Slovenian capital of Ljubljana in a world of pine and snow and wooden houses. We had left Italy a few days before having decided to end our trip on one last mad wee jaunt through Europe. Ljubljana itself was a great little city where we stayed in a great little hostel that was once a prison (our window was still barred). The hostel and many of the graffiti smeared surrounding buildings were saved from destruction by squatters years ago and now form the area of Metalkova, a kind of free-state within the city. After Italy's conformity to fairly conservative norms, it was great to be in a place that revelled in quite the opposite. As the snow piled upon the recycled artworks of Metalkova, we walked into the old town and drank mulled wine as the sun slipped down the icy sky and the streets glowed with a thousand Christmas lights. With our breath like smoke and our feet like stone we decided we needed a hot bath. Where better to fulfil such a desire, we thought, than Budapest?

Metalkova, Ljubljana, Slovenia

After a seven hour train journey through snowy fields we steamed into the Hungarian capital. Here too the streets were a twinkle with snow and fairy lights and the wind blew icily down the grand boulevards. The next morning we had found our bath and were slipping into the steamy waters of an antique pool. While fat Hungarians in Speedos played chess, we lay back and looked up at the winter skies and watched the steam roll away past the statues and curlicues and breathed sighs of a contentment that was surely fathoms deep. It's been so long since we've had a proper hot bath that I fancy there may have been Indian train grime washed away by those waters, not to mention Chinese desert dust and Kyrgyz kebab grease. That was supposed to come out sounding like a romantic recall of our journey but has actually just left us sounding quite dirty. Still, it's probably also quite accurate.

The baths at Budapest, Hungary

Budapest was an extremely beautiful city and we really enjoyed our time there, but there was somehow an air of sadness. The grand streets seemed sparsely populated, people in cheap clothes huddled against the cold, the glory of the architecture hovering like a faded dream above their heads. As in many formerly-communist countries in this time of failed capitalism, people often speak with great nostalgia of the social security they once had and the bleak uncertainty of the future. So, having had quite enough of whinging poor people we headed west to Vienna.

Note: just in case it wasn't clear, that last line was intended as a joke. I have nothing against people who whinge.

I was very interested to visit Vienna as it, along with Budapest, filled a hole in the history of our journey. Not only was it the seat of power that ruled over many of the lands we passed through back in January (the Habsburg Empire) but also the furthest westerly point reached by the Mongol hordes who raged west from Central Asia. However, though it was only days ago, my only concrete memories of Vienna are of intense cold. The cold had seemingly scoured the streets of all life and was busy chilling the joy from us too. It certainly seemed nice but I do clearly recall us standing in front of that famous ferris wheel after a long, cold stomp through the city and Nic saying with genuine feeling 'This is sh*t' and me having to cajole her back to happiness with an oversized wurst. That was genuinely, genuinely not meant to be innuendo but, reading it back, I can understand it could perhaps be read as such.

Anyway, I'm going to get us all out of Vienna before this all descends into filth. We took a train to the Slovakian capital of Bratislava and, though I can't put my finger on exactly why, it was really lovely. Maybe it was the snow falling oh so prettily, maybe it was the small lanes winding up to the castle, maybe it was the fact that a beer cost 50cents. Mostly though, it was the people that we met that have made it special. From documentary makers and Olympic swimmers to doctors of poetry we met some fascinating and wonderful people in that lovely little town.

Bratislava, Slovakia

After Bratislava we decided we had truly had enough of old towns and castles on hills and Christmas markets and people called things like Zoltan, so decided to cut across Europe to that capital of cool, Berlin. The icy winds were not in our favour however and due to various factors (mainly the ticket price) we were blown instead to Prague. We really had had enough of such places but thought we'd deign to give it a try (I'm sure your hearts bleed for us). But do you know? Prague is amazing! Who'd of thought? I thought it would be one of those things like caviar or Frank Sinatra or Forrest Gump that everyone seems to think is good when actually it's just sh*t. But no! I can't describe how beautiful it was to step out onto the Charles Bridge with the snow falling, with the Gothic spires and statues all frosted white and the gargoyles drooling icicles. Even at this late stage, it seems this trip still has surprises in store for us. Can't be too many though, we're going to be home in a week. Bloody hell.

Prague, Czech Republic

Of Souls, Lost and Found

The coffin was at least ten feet tall and before it knelt a wimpled woman sombrely lighting a candle. The crowd around us began to move with the pounding of a brass band and the air soon grew warm with the moving bodies and the fragrant clouds of hashish smoke. 'What is going on?' you may well cry. If you're lucky I may let you know in a paragraph or two. Then again I might get carried away, completely forget and you'll be forever in the dark. Whatever the case we must first go back to our farm in the distant, misty hills...

Following the events of my last missive we spent another week or two in the hills of northern Italy, counting goats and wishing away the mist that had engulfed the valley. Outside the farmhouse windows only a few hazy metres were visible so we holed-up, built fires and baked bread. Luckily, we also had a couple of very welcome visits from folks back home. It wasn't that Nic and I had become entirely bored of each others' company but I had noticed her eying up the wood chopping axe with a rather evil glint in her eye and I can't deny that an over-baked focaccia hadn't struck me as a rather effective bludgeon. Anyway, one of the reasons for this chapter of our trip was to give us a taste of country life and help us decide if we might one day flee to a leafy idyll of our own. On one of our last nights among those dripping trees and muddy paths we felt like we were much closer to an answer and it wasn't an answer we had particularly expected. We needed a city. We wanted a city and a gallery and a cinema and a shop and a pub and people and life and energy and music and markets and bustle and buildings and art and bohemianism and a complete and utter lack of goats.

So with mud still dropping from our boots and labrador hair still matted in our clothes we hit the glittering streets of Milan. Past Gucci handbags, handmade brogues and newly-engineered faces we pushed our way into a gloriously decadent shopping arcade. I like to think we cut our own dash in our Indian trousers, lost luggage jumpers and practical raincoats and I've no doubt a few high-fashion heads must have been turned by this fresh new style. We met our friend Claudia for drinks and woke up the next morning with the pleasant feeling of being on an unknown floor in an unknown room, back on the road again.

Bidding farewell to the lovely Claudia (pronounced the English 'Claw-Deer') we ran the rails to Turin to meet another and equally lovely Claudia (this time pronounced 'Cloudier' in the Italian fashion) who we had met on the banks of the Ganges a lifetime ago (i.e. in August). She inducted us into her rather wonderful city, its beautiful streets, wintry hills and pleasantly bohemian air. We spent a lovely couple of nights eating with borrowed friends, drinking into the night at pavement bars and walking the streets through air perfumed with chocolate, wine and hot pizza. Turin was certainly beautiful but, on top of that, and unlike many of Italy's tourist cities, it felt real.


It was in Turin that we witnessed the bizarre funeral described in the first paragraph. It was not in fact a funeral for a person but for a nightspot. Alongside Turin's Po River there is a whole strip of bars and clubs that have been serving Turinese party-goers and squatters for decades. In the last couple of weeks the council decided to close it all down on the grounds of health and safety. The 'funeral' took place outside the council offices and was a strangely joyous protest against this decision. It struck me as a very European scene - on the one hand a source of joy was being stupidly crushed in the name of health and safety but on the other it showed our sense of freedom and willingness to argue our corner, to stick our fingers up to the powers that be. 'It is so good to be back in Europe' said Nic, though whether she meant the protest or the chocolate shop around the corner I can't be sure.

With new friends in Turin

After such Claudia-based fun, we headed to Venice where there were no Claudias to be found but instead a big old city unfeasibly built on a lagoon. Arriving by train over the misty waters and emerging to see gondolas ripple the canals was rather wonderful and it is an undeniably beautiful and quite unbelievable city. It also seemed an appropriate destination being home to that other Silk Road traveller, Marco Polo (the copier). However, it did feel like Venice's true soul had long since been strip-mined by tourists greedily prospecting for romance. I would still recommend anyone to go as it is still utterly unique but, if you want an Italian city with soul, Turin is the place for me.

So, as we find ourselves back on the road with city maps and train tickets clogging our pockets, we look east once more. In fact, we've already crossed into a new land. But that'll have to wait for next time for we must return to our cell. We're currently in a prison. But, as I said, that'll just have to wait.

A Slight Return

This has been a long time coming. Believe it or not, we've been so busy I haven't had time to write. Almost like we're normal people with normal jobs. Though thankfully not quite yet...

A few days after leaving the smoky pall of Delhi's streets we found ourselves chasing goats across a knobbly Italian hillside, gasping for breath and grasping for horns. But first, before I get carried away with tales of bucolic bliss, we must head south! Southwards and magically backwards in time, to a time before now, a time that was approximately eight weeks ago! To a plane hitting a Roman runway and a pair of vagrant Britishers being engulfed by a wave of reverse culture shock. Yes, Finn and Nic had re-entered Europe and they wanted cheese.

Blinking into the bright Roman sunlight we marvelled at the traffic that swept hushingly by, the streets free from smouldering piles of litter and the miraculous lack of pavement-dwelling livestock. We walked and walked through streets that appeared almost contrived in their 'distressed' beauty and a hundred piazzas that alone would normally be a town's main draw. We ate and drank wine and felt at home (albeit a slightly sunnier version of home).

Before coming to Italy we signed up with the organisation WWOOF which, if you don't already know, is a network of farms that host volunteers, providing them with food and board in exchange for labour. Our first farm was near Modena in the north of Italy and proved to be a rather lucky landing. We were housed in boutique luxury in an old farm house and fed four courses of delicious food every night from the restaurant kitchen. In exchange for such comforts we worked long days that involved building goat fences, chasing goats, clipping goat's nails. Less goaty pursuits included helping out in the restaurant, cutting lavender and picking almonds. Each morning we would walk the dogs up to the top of the hill where we would look down on the misty green valleys stitched with vineyards and olive groves, grinning stupidly at yet another surprising and joyful chapter of our epic year.

Our second placement was quite a different experience. Gone was the luxury and in was a wooden room and an old camp bed within earshot of a pair of snoring pigs. Dinner comprised entirely of ingredients grown organically on the farm, homemade cheese, the cured meat of the previous occupants of the sty and bread made from their own flour. But before eating, the family would sing a song. These songs whether Christian, Buddhist, Hindu or Native American were sung with gusto by the whole family. The table itself was surrounded by bookshelves and a great untidy stack of board games which provided the entertainment in the absence of computers, TVs or mobile phones. But there was not much time for entertainments, long hours were spent in the fields, in the felt-making kitchen or juicing grapes. They lead a hard but true life and one that we learnt much from.

I spent quite a lot of time digging massive holes in the ground (while Nic sieved grain in the granary) and it was back-breaking work. However, as I've found before with such labour, I finished the day with a feeling not unlike that following meditation, a sort of connection to everything, a state where food tastes better, water is heavenly and a shower like a rebirth. Not that showers came too often, water was precious and they were generally only enjoyed once or twice a week (or in the father's case perhaps monthly). All water was conserved, the run off from the taps being collected in small basins with which to flush the toilets.

The days started early, the sun would just be creeping above the mountains, turning the clinging clouds mauve and orange while the valleys were full of mist, distant farmsteads and villages rising out of it like islands from a milky sea. Though it was cold and our still warm beds called to us, it felt so good to greet such a day and to spend it, after so much idleness, properly working.

Part of our reasoning for this current chapter of our trip was to see if we could live in the countryside and leave behind the city life. We still don't know either way. After eight weeks or so of relative isolation we travelled to Florence where we helped set up a market stall selling produce from the farm and überhippy felt ware. Florence was hardly a bustling metropolis but it was good to be back surrounded by beautiful buildings, art and design. It was also good to meet other travellers again and talk the evenings away, swapping tales and card games.

We're now back at our original farm, house-, goat- and dog-sitting while the owners are on holiday. We have time to reflect and cook and walk and empty their cellar of wine. The other night, I collected dead wood from the forest and built a lovely fire upon which we cooked kebabs on sticks (as we'd learnt to do in Kyrgyzstan) and toasted flatbreads on the coals. We watched the embers die down and the night sky light up and, not for the first time this year, felt like the luckiest man alive (Nic had already gone in because her feet were cold and was probably tired of me banging on about the beauty of fire.)

We currently have no idea where we head next but we're happy to be back in more northern climes with the leaves turning red and the smell of snow in the air.

Reveries in Delhi

*WARNING: Nic has declared this entry 'too long', 'a bit preachy' and 'not boring as such...' She is most probably correct on all these points so read at your own risk (and when you're extremely bored and don't have anything else to do).

A few weeks ago, sweating in some jungly town not far from the steamy banks of the Mekong, we sat down to answer a profound question. What do you do when the world is your oyster and you have all the liberty and time you could require? To come up with an answer is more trying than you might imagine. In those steamy climes we put our heads together and bashed out a plan. Firstly, we needed to work, to have a purpose and a function. Secondly, we needed Europe. It is only when you spend so long away from the continent that you realise how much it too is part of our identity. I consider not just Britain but Europe to be my home.

So we decided that, after India, we would fly to Europe and volunteer on organic farms until finally arriving home for Christmas to rejoin society proper in January. We scanned the flights to Europe, trying to find the cheapest destination, just falling short of sticking a pin in a map. The best deal would take us to Rome. It seemed so apt, after all it was Roman gold that encouraged much of the Silk Road trade, imperial Roman soil over which we travelled for so many weeks and, of course, it is only natural that our road, like all the others, should lead to Rome. In a few weeks we'll be in Umbria picking olives in the Mediterranean sun.

It seems the right time to reflect on where we've been, what we've learnt, what we've seen. This has been a tough trip that's contained some seriously challenging times, but it has for both of us been the most educative and enlightening year of our lives. I might try and put into words exactly what it is that we've learnt. 

Lesson 1: We in the UK live in a liberal paradise
Iran taught us more than any other country we've visited. Seeing the people suffer the awful regime was deeply sobering and made us realise that even David Cameron is an easygoing, bleeding-heart liberal in comparison (this doesn't mean we shouldn't do everything in our power to dethrone the greasy little shit). As far as I'm concerned Britain is one of the most accepting and tolerant countries in the world. While still racist, homophobic and sexist it is light years ahead of almost everywhere else. Of this we should be truly proud (though still do everything in our power to destroy the racists, homophobes and sexists).

Lesson 2: Work is essential to happiness
You might imagine that one could be endlessly happy travelling the world, stopping to graze on fine food, chatting and playing cards into the tropical night. And you can for 6 or 7 months but there comes a time when you realise we all need a function, a role in society, a job. Otherwise you just float, you're empty and pointless. We've met people who've been travelling for two or three years and they are, without exception, bored, bitter and joyless. Society, community and function are essential.

Lesson 3: We know nothing of generosity
We've been shown such astonishing generosity on this trip it is hard to comprehend. Especially in Turkey, Iran and Central Asia there seemed nothing perfect strangers wouldn't do for us. Free meals, free hotels, free bus rides, free sightseeing tours, good company. It was a level of hospitality we have never experienced before and was quite humbling.

Lesson 4: We live in a world of miraculous things
By this I mean that we, in Western Europe enjoy daily luxury that is inconceivable to most of the planet. Among the most incredible are the following: Being able to draw safe, clean water from a tap, knowing that we are protected by legal rights and that we can say anything we like, living in a world where daily corruption is almost nonexistent (we do not need, for example, to pay teachers to guarantee a good result), knowing that our food is not only safe but always available, and, perhaps most miraculous of all, having free education and free healthcare (people cannot believe it when we tell them
this). There are many many more things that we daily take for granted, even gripe about.

Lesson 5: I no longer know what is East and West
Note: I've yet to find anyone else who finds this even remotely interesting, maybe you are the one!
We talk so often about life in 'the West' but what is it and where do draw the line? There are centuries old Muslim communities in mainland Europe and secular modernists in Central Asia, does modern Turkey now count as the West? Does Brazil or Australia? And how can we club Iran, China and India together as 'the East'? It is nonsensical, arbitrary and, as we continue to draw lines and wage wars over the idea of East and West, it is dangerous to continue with this gross oversimplification.
Note: I've yet to find anyone else who

Lesson 6: The world is indescribably beautiful (literally)
Though I've attempted to convey what we have seen in my blog, I will never be able to truly document the astonishing beauty that we have seen. The whirling of Konya's dervishes, the lumpen-throated beauty of Esfahan's mosques, the vast wastes of China's Desert of Death, the thousand-sights-a-metre onslaught of India's teeming streets simply cannot be put into words.

Lesson 7: We're quite possibly doomed
When you witness first-hand the industrial boom of Asia, the populations exploding like corn kernels, the hills stripped of trees, the smoke and and concrete dust spiralling into smoggy skies, you can't help but feel a little worried for the world. If the world as we know it is to end (and I'm increasingly sure it will in the not too distant future) it's as good a reason as any to live and appreciate the glories that we have before us and go out and see the beauty of an ever-shrinking world.

Lesson 8: Most people are good, everywhere
I'm not sure that takes much explaining. But it's true.

I could go on and on but cannot bore you with my mangled musings any further. In fact, I imagine most of you will have stopped reading by now and that I may be talking to an earless void.

We are now in Delhi and fly to Rome tomorrow. We're trying to soak up the last of our Asian journey, a journey that began as we crossed the Sea of Marmara way back in February. Outside, auto-rickshaws putter, cycle-rickshaws rattle and car horns howl to the scolding sky. This afternoon we will pick through the beggars and pushers to our favourite cafe, drink chai, watch the teeming world flow by and dream of distant yet familiar skies.

To Rome!

Into the Absurd

 But a week is left before our Asian journey is finally over and our new adventure begins (of more later). I did have a blog all ready to go ages ago but having accidentally deleted it I didn't have the heart to start again. So here, condensed into three exciting installments , are our most recent tales of daring adventure/layabout meanderings.

Part 1: How to become one with the universe
We begin in Rishkesh on the banks of the Ganges beneath kingfisher swoops and incense plumes.  It is a holy place where Hindus come to ring bells and wash away sins and foreigners come to meditate, yogarise and be healed by crystals. Travellers walk around with yoga mats strapped to their backs, pull yoga moves while waiting for their cheese toasties and think that combining trance music with Tibetan chanting is acceptable practice (it's not). A place full in equal parts of wisdom and complete and utter bullshit.

Being the highly uncynical pair that we are, we began our own 'spirtitual' journey in a darkened room chanting 'Om' for a solid half hour. Our meditation instructor was so softly-spoken and I was so busy straining to hear him that I perhaps missed my opportunity to transcend this earthly realm. Instead of feeling the energy of the universe I felt the desire to shake the guru by the collar and tell him to speak up.

Our second attempt at a mediation course was more successful. Taking time to simply witness yourself in the moment is undoubtedly something we could all do more of. As long as he didn't start wittering on about God and chakras and pixie dust it was pretty much wonderful. We also attended a breathing class. Apparently the idea is that you take air into your lungs through your mouth or nose (the holes located in your face) and then out again through the self same orifices. This, apparently stops you dying from asphyxiation. Amazing!

Simply watching the river flow, the gliding kites that scanned its waters or the beautiful langur monkeys that emerged from the green hills really was the finest meditation of all.
 
Part 2: What the hell is the place and what is that smell?
The answer to the first question is Deshnok near Bikaner in Rajasthan, where a remarkable (if preposterous) temple brings pilgrims flocking from across the desert sands. The answer to the second became apparent as we passed through the marble gates. The stench was a nostril-bothering mix of ammonia and neglected pet shop and stemmed from the temple's main residents. Every corner was writhing with wormy tales, skittering feet and lank fur. Rats. Thousands of manky, diseased looking rats. And what's this? People are feeding them the finest sweetmeats, laying down dishes of milk for them to greedily guzzle from, praying before shrines cascading with them. Because we had respectfully removed our shoes, our feet were soon peppered with the rat feed and rat shit scattered all over the floor. 'Why oh why!' you may cry (and for good reason). They are apparently the reincarnations of storytellers who were given ratty avatars to prevent them from being taken to the death god (or some such twaddle). It was the most absurd place we've ever been and was so bewildering that Nic finally decided that all religion everywhere was ridiculous and pointless. Oh European logic and reason! How we yearn for thee!
 
Part 3: Taking the in-laws to volatile borders
A week or so ago, Nic's Mum and Stepdad descended on Delhi, bringing gratefully received chocolate, Saturday papers and new pants. I can't tell you how good it feels to sit in your pants eating chocolate and reading the Guardian for the first time in 8 months (though this was perhaps not the primary sight Nic's Mum had come to see).
We've done many things but the most note-worthy thing was travelling to the India-Pakistan border to watch the lowering of the flags. This may sound thoroughly dull but it proved to be almost as funny/bizarre/disturbing as the rat temple. A thousand flag-waving Indians jostled for space on stands overlooking the gate through to Pakistan, chanting patriotic songs and running around manically as if they'd just won an Olympic gold.  On the Pakistan side a similar scene was taking place though, it has to be said, in a more dignified manner. Passionate cries of 'India Zindabad!' (long live India) were answered with 'Pakistan Zindabad!' from the other side. People were whipping themselves into a nationalist fervour that appeared part Royal Jubilee, part National Front rally (not that I've ever been to either may I add). And then the action started. Indian troops dressed in absurd fanned hats began matching with extravagant goose steps toward the border gate. The Pakistanis did the same until the guards were facing-off with preposterous high kicks, their feet cracking back down to the tarmac. The crowds went wild. The guards strutted around like arrogant cocks (either definition of the word 'cock' is apt here) attempting to prove the superiority of their own country. Though this is certainly better than the all-out war so often promised it was a vaguely disturbing and completely ridiculous display. To think that the two countries were once a (relatively) harmonious whole. It was like nothing we've seen on this trip. It the midst of all the noise and mayhem, we couldn't help but stare over the border a little longingly, nostalgic for the generosity and hospitality of the Islamic world. Thankfully, the in-laws left elated if utterly bemused, though Somerset-Wiltshire rivalries can be pretty fierce, home must have felt worlds away.
 

A typical Indian street complete with beautifully hand-painted shop signs

There's so so much more to write, there are temples of gold, mountains of green and cities of blue that paint the pages of my diary and jostle for space in jumbled memories. But I'm sure there's only so much you can take. We are finally done now with backpacking in Asia, feel we can take in no more and that the breeze is blowing us west. We're yearning to drink water from a tap (oh what luxury), sleep on sheets of discernible colour and use toilets that don't appear cleaner after I've shat in them.
 
Many of you may already know what our plans are for the coming months but if not you'll just have to wait for the next entry. We fly forth to the city which funded so much Silk Road trade and scattered ruins over many of the lands we have crossed. Perhaps then, a return to the source, from where our own civilisation once sprung...

On the way home from school on the back of a cycle rickshaw

The Golden Temple in Amritsar. I haven't mentioned this in the text but will allow picture to speak for itself.

Into the Clouds

A 1,200-year-old Dhankar, Spiti Valley

 How is it that we found ourselves in the heart of a cloud, running barefoot along a track of wet mud? Everything was misty white except for the five metres of muddy road ahead, but we knew, somewhere, further up the mountainside, our vehicle awaited us. 

We were attempting to cross the Rohtang Pass and had found a lift with a local driver and his wife. We had been crawling up the road for hours and, at a particularly muddy patch, had had to get out to lighten the load. We eventually found our van, the wife, who had also had to pick her way through the mud and cloud, had somehow arrived minutes before us, despite her advanced age and the fact that she was suffering from typhoid. We lowland folk are simply not built for such altitude (the road we were on would cross a pass nearly as high as Europe's highest peak.) Because of the mist and rain and the quagmired roads, what should have been a three-hour journey took us ten. When we eventually reached the summit we watched  Indian tourists in hired fur coats taking bleak pictures of each other in the mist. We warmed ourselves in a chai shop constructed from stone and canvas. With the chaiwallah hunched over the flame and the mist drifting smoke-like under the low canopy, we could have been in another time, another world. The following days would be equally unworldly but the roads to be taken would make the Rohtang Pass seem like a Sunday drive. 

 

This was our 'road'. The men are reorganising the boulders so our bus could cross this rather watery stretch.

We were headed for the Spiti Valley in the State of Himachal Pradesh, a place more Tibetan than Indian, where arid landscapes hide thousand-year-old monasteries in their craggy contours. For the next stretch  of the journey, we had seats at the back of a rickety local bus. Bundles, limbs, and crinkly old ladies pressed from all sides as we began the ascent of a craggy mountain pass. The road was unsurfaced and narrow and the bus swung the hairpins at a rattling speed, at times we were hurled half a foot out of our seats. As we took the bends, the rear of the bus left the road and, looking down, we could see nothing but a sickening drop to the rocks below. There was no mist here, nothing to mask the certain death one envisioned at every downward glance (or the occasional wrecked car many fathoms beneath). After a few hours, we reached the top of the next pass where Buddhist prayer flags streamed around a stupa and we climbed down to calm our nerves, ease our cramped limbs and rub colour back into our whitened knuckles. Above, jagged 6000m peaks were plated with vast glaciers, and hung with strings of meltwater that fell glittering down to the valley floor. 

We fell in with a group of fellow travellers, Israelis trailing dreadlocks and crochet wool, a Spaniard on the run from his travel buddies, a profoundly deaf French writer, a German-Mexican on a Buddhist pilgrimage. We were all brought together by the narrow valley of snow peaks and scree, and continued the journey as a motley crew. At Ki, we saw an ancient monastery piled up on top of a hill and enjoyed a chai in its darkened interior. Many of the monks had been there since their mid-teens and would spend the remainder of their days amongst hypnotic chants and curling incense smoke, gazing  out at the wheeling eagles, the icy peaks and the pink-faced foreigners huffing it up the hill.

In the winter, the valley is completely inaccessible and the roofs of the whitewashed houses were already being piled high with firewood and straw for the animals. It must be a bleak existence for many and the alcohol on the breaths of many locals seemed to testify to this. The most difficult section of the journey involved walking up to a mountain lake. We were over 4200m above sea-level and entering a strange zone of airlessness. The sun was so strong that our skins were glowing pink in minutes, the air so absent that we had to stop every twenty metres to gasp back our breath. Others complained of headaches or rapid heart rates. It is a truly inhuman environment. Still, we reached the top and me and the Spaniard, let's call him Alan (for that is indeed his name), ran and jumped into the lake. We'd forgotten that such excessive activity wasn't wise at such altitude and were soon gasping and spluttering. Once we stopped however, the sound drained from the landscape and nothing, bar the faint rustle of water, could be heard, just blissful silence. The one advantage of walking at altitude is that it doesn't seem to effect me as much as it does others, so, for a short but glorious time, I appear to be the fittest man around. It's a shame we had not brought a football, for once I may not have been last to be picked (even with the absence of one-legged Graham from school).

* Note: One-legged Graham does actually exist- one glorious sports day, I even managed to beat him into fifth place in the 100m.

Anyway, I appear to be wittering on and on. In short, Spiti was quite wonderful and I shall not forget those soaring landscapes, atmospheric monasteries and thrill-ride buses. It was certainly a highlight of our increasingly epic journey.

A rather beautiful Hindu temple in Sarahan - you can see the influence of nearby Tibet

We slowly worked our way south, greenery rushing up the valleys to meet us, while the monsoon once again darkened our skies. In this soggy atmosphere of mist and rain we eventually reached the city of Shimla. Shimla was built by the British as their summer capital, nestled on a ridge that enjoys a similar climate to our own damp  isle. The architecture gazes dreamily back to a romanticised Britain, half-timbered cottages still clinging to the idealised notion of the motherland, churches with the illusion that they are in Bury-St-Edmunds rather than clinging to a Himalayan foothill surrounded by monkeys and turbaned Punjabis. We visited the wonderful little Gaiety Theatre, the boards of which were once trodden by a young Rudyard Kipling and Lord Baden-Powell. Again, we got the sense that modern Indian history is also our history. Oddly enough, most Indians talk with some affection for the days of the Britishers and feel it was positive time no matter how much we try to convince them otherwise.

Well, I think you've been reading for quite long enough now and, for the moment, will leave you in that strange corner of the British Empire, watching the church spires and scout huts disappear into the mist.

 

Nako, a typical Spiti village

 

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