Section 3: The Journey > Chapter 24: For a photo of Fotula

June 6, 2010

I secretly applaud myself for having the good sense to charge both my phone and the camera to the brim; for today brings forth images that memory alone cannot capture. Whereas the camera lacks space, the iPhone lacks resolution. But the amalgam of the two provides me with all the pixels I need to capture some of what I experience. All of what I experience may be experienced by experience alone.

Spiderweb throws a liner into his jacket and adds mittens underneath his gloves. We resume our journey and I can tell that we have begun our ascend to Fotula, for the path gets thinner, the rocks thicker and the gravel denser.

Ten minutes into the ride and the Zanskar range brings forth a fury that rattles us in inconceivable ways. Cross-winds pound against our hardhats, cause our metal to stumble and drag us against the vertical ascend. I'm too petrified to rejoice the fact that this is the first snow fall I experience in all of 33 years. For the experience is an uncomfortable one. Wind and snow pound my face mercilessly. I try pulling down my vizor, but a scratched surface and a paste of snow eliminate visibility almost instantaneously. I pull the vizor back up. The snow flakes sting as they make their way through the crevices in my hard hat settling quickly onto my spectacles and, once again, eliminate visibility. I try working without spectacles but a concoction of dust and snow lash out against my eyeballs. The snow melts on impact and does what it does best; eliminates visibility.

I struggle desperately to stay on course as I try to maneuver the graphite away from a fatal fall. I have lost sensation in my fingers. It only occurs to me now that I am still gloveless. My sensory system gave in many shocks ago. I signal Spiderweb asking him to stop. Motorobreath turns the bend and fails to see us halt. He will have to catch up with him. I take one last video shot of our surroundings. I can do no more. I have neither strength, nor sensation, nor courage.



With gloves firmly in place, we ride once more. For once, I am convinced it is better to stay on course than halt for pictures.

To date I have revered the Universe for its magnanimity. Indeed I have spoken of its beauty not hours ago. I have referred to it as beautiful. I have referred to it as grand. I have referred to it as fair. I have thought of it with a sense of wonder and love and affection.

But the purity of my thought towards it dies today for it is today that I experience the evil of the Universe. For I have experienced the wrath of nature sitting in the comfort of my home. I have experienced the wrath of nature only through the torment of others. I have watched them suffer within the confines of my idiot box. I have watched them cry over those they lost. I have watched them express fear over nature's fury. I have pretended to understand, pretended to care, all the while secretly admiring the Universe for its infinite power. But from what I observe today, I conclude only this:

The Universe and its bastard child, Nature, are mother-fucking bullies.

I will change my stance some other day. But right here, right now, cornered and stifled between rocks and hard places, I can only express my spite for the big bully. It toys with us. It toys with our existence. It shows no mercy. Several times we have been pushed towards objects that will demolish us with frightening ease. Often times we are blinded. A few times rubber has hit rubble sending rider and ride careening towards the edge of the cliff. The storm surrounds us; darkens all. I am enveloped in fear I have seldom known. With fear comes anger, adrenaline and the fight or flee response. In our particular situation, we can only attempt to flee.

We pass Fotula but we dare not stop. Three more kilometers and one man-made structure catches my eye. My gut response is to reach for the camera. But my numb fingers can barely manage to keep pace with the momentum. They struggle to squeeze the clutch. I cannot stop. I cannot capture for the Universe threatens to capture and devour me. We keep pushing our steeds but the vision of the structure remains with me. I need to capture it. I need to remember it. There is nothing special about the structure and yet I feel drawn to it. Perhaps its the impossibility of pixellating anything in the present circumstance that  makes the thought of capturing it so seductive. I do not know. All I know is that I need to. I cannot fathom the intensity of my need in its entirety. I can merely experience it one trickle at a time.

We ride many more kilometers, three more to be exact. And as we turn a bend, within moments, the storm disappears; gone, just like that, as if it never happened. No clouds, no winds... nothing, just the peaceful welcoming warmth of a valley that promised to wipe us off the face of this earth not minutes ago.

Bitch.

I turn to Spiderweb and propose that we return so that we may pixellate the structure we left behind, not to mention capture our presence at Fotula. Spiderweb discerns, perhaps justifiably, that I have completely lost my mind. But my need is too great to listen to reason. I want to go back. I need to go back. Spiderweb tries to convince me that the storm may return, that it is perhaps ludicrously dangerous for us to revert. I'm not listening. He isn't willing to risk going back but he understands he cannot reason with me anymore. And so, he does all he can do, he promises to wait where we stand while I ride 6 kms back to Fotula, grab some images and come back down. Several curves in the distance below, we've located Motorbreath. He sees us and waves. We signal him to wait where he stands as I turn my steed around and head back uphill.

I'm pumped. My mind races at the speed of scattered thoughts of life and living and the fragility of it all. I meet a few heavy vehicles headed downhill, steer around them and keep a cautious, constant rev until I finally arrive at the structure I romanced these past few minutes. The winds have since tempered down but not enough to put me at ease. I get my images, head up to Fotula, get some more and zip back down. As I approach the structure again, I halt once more. I don't really know why but I just need to spend some time sitting alongside it. I make the mistake of leaving my gloves nestled loosely underneath the bungie chords. The winds drag one of them out towards the cliff. I find it hanging precariously on a shrub. I recover it without incident.

I'm shaking with the adrenalin rush of the experience I experienced. I'm shaking with the experience of having life in me. I'm shaking with the excitement at the prospect of sharing these experiences with those that did not follow. I'm shaking with the pinch of a bitter cold, one that seems sweet for I can feel again. I am numb, I am exhausted, I am happy, I am alive. As I ride my way back, I can feel tears trickling down my face. The Universe knows what I knew not. That in my insignificance lies my humility. And in my humility lies my greatness. For only in the face of fear will I commit acts that I deem worthy of the brave; not by external standards but by standards of my own. For only in the adversity will a simple photo expedition become an adventure. For only in these acts will I redeem myself, only to be humiliated again by the might of the Universe and so the cycle shall continue. And lest I forget, the Universe will teach me this very lesson once again in the days to come.

I reconnect with Spiderweb. He has spent his time capturing frames of our rendezvous point. Motorbreath continues to wait for us in the distance. Aman's whereabouts are a mystery. Not long into the ride, we are re-introduced to tar on NH-1D. Flawless tarmac with delicious corners. We rip through with Motorbreath leading us. He manages to gain ground on us and we lose him to speed this time. Spiderweb and I stop to shoot videos of us riding down the NH-1D. We find Motorbreath waiting for us at a chai tapri many minutes down the road. We are offered warm water so we can massage our fingers back to sanity. We meet an army personnel who suggests we break at Lamayuru a few miles away for parts of our road to Leh would be a challenge after sunset.

As I look into the distance, I see a snow storm brewing again. I smile; one other will learn a lesson today... the hard way.

Section 3: The Journey > Chapter 23: The last of Aman

June 6, 2010

I'm am fortunate for Aman stands besides me, lifting my steed off my trapped body. It is moments like these that turn animosity to dust. For I know that I am helpless without his aid, as does he. He helps, pushing our differences aside. I dust myself off, inspect the machine - all is well - get back on and we are enroute again. Spiderweb and Motorbreath await our arrival, unaware of my brush with calamity. I inform them, respond to concerned queries and we all move along. Nature continues to belittle our imaginations until we can imagine no more. I rescind into the role of a mechanical shutter bug, creating memories to be consumed days into the future for consume I can no more. Nature's beauty has outlasted my ability to sense it, overwhelmed it, laughed in its face, emerged victorious. I am unworthy, as I suspect, are the rest of we. I begin to ponder on my insignificance in the grand scheme of the cosmos.

My reverie is broken when we encounter a beast too feeble to rise onto its hooves. It lays on a blind corner, in clear an present danger of being run over by an oncoming vehicle.

Motorbreath hops off his steed and, unaware of the beast's condition, attempts to scare it off the road - at first with the pounding of his feet followed by gentle nudges to its side. The beast attempts to rise in vain, its frail hooves wobbling under the weight of its body. It collapses back down onto gravel and stone,  unable to move. Motorbreath attempts to lift it in his arms, but its too heavy for one; perhaps light enough for two. I volunteer. As I rev up and maneuver my steed across the gravely road, a gentle pump on the brakes sends us skidding across the surface and once again I find myself face down. This time though, the steed takes a beating, as the right rear-view-mirror (RVM) splits into two under the weight of the steed, the tail bag, the saddle bags and I. As it bounces off into the distance, I stare in horror. What have I done!?! My precious steed. How could I? If only... but....

The negative impact of the crash is balanced out by the positive ascend of the beast the deafening sounds around it give it the adrenalin rush it needs to pull itself up and scurry across the road into a safe zone.

Bitch.

As is customary, we press forward.

Many moments later, we arrive at the promised land. A dwarf village with run-down structures built of mud and stone. And yes, herein we find a mechanic. Spiderweb has been silently pushing his steed to its maximum capacity in a bid to maintain forward momentum. On one occasion thus far, the machine overheated causing us to take an unscheduled break. I cannot begin to imagine his frustration. But he has maintained his composure despite the issues; never complaining; maintaining his lead when possible. Motorbreath on the other hand has more than once expressed his concern over his mutilated silencer and non-existent treads. The mechanic gets to work on the Karizma's tyres, detects the puncture which is quickly sealed by Motorbreath using our puncture kit. He then proceeds to work on the Pulsar's silencer, promising that when he's done with it, it will be in factory condition. Apparently, factory condition has a very different connotation in that part of the world, for the silencer does not hold its place for more than 3 seconds before breaking into a familiar and violent dance.

I too make feeble attempts to affix my RVM using super glue. I fail miserably. And so, while the steeds are being worked on, I slip into a casual conversation with the man who never bought the Ferrari.

When I ask what he desires out of life, he responds, "To live."

When I ask if he desires to someday see more of the world, he replies "I have lived long enough, walked far enough, experienced deep enough. I do not desire anything more. I am at peace. I have only death to experience." 

When I ask what he does to survive he replies, "Run this store, earn a few pennies, invest it in essentials, grow my own food, sleep a good nights sleep."

When I ask if he runs the store through the year, he replies, "No. 4 months is all we get. For the remaining, its too cold to be outdoors. We stay indoors for the most part, venturing out only to dig out stored food." 

"Dig out stored food?", I ask. "Yes. We can only grow vegetables for 4 months. Once the snow sets in, we store our produce under the ground. Only 50% of our produce survives the harsh winter. We make do with whatever remains."

"How much for the super glue?".
"One rupee, like it says on the pack."
"You could ask for more you know. You're the only one here with this stock for miles."
"I don't need more. An honest days living is sufficient for my needs.", he says with a smile and a twinkle of innocence in his battered old eyes.

I feel foolish and small for offering him more.

Part of me wants to pity him - how little he experiences, how little he achieves. Most of me, though, reveres him, for as it stands today, I add nothing of significance to the global consciousness. I achieve as little or perhaps lesser than he. And I do it at a heavy price to the environment. My carbon footprint in a month far exceeds that of his in a year with a contribution to the planet no greater than his. Perhaps he leads a better life than I. Perhaps it is I who lacks experience and learning. Perhaps he had it right all along.

I can hear Spiderweb conversing with a band of tourists arriving from Leh. They seem thrilled by his revelation that our journey began as far as Mumbai roughly a week ago. He seems to be enjoying their attention and curiosity. They offer us snacks and tea. We gladly accept. I spend the remaining moments capturing memories - some will last only momentarily; while others will make a permanent home in my neural circuitry... permanent in as much as the permanence of my finite consciousness.

With patchy repairs in place, we hasten to say goodbye for we have miles to go before we sleep. With unsaid thank you's and undelivered hugs, I throttle up and thrust forward. I can only muster the courage for a wave. The peace in his eyes will rock the very core of my conscience. How do you say thank you to one that doesn't desire it...?

Gravel and stone under spinning wheels have become the norm now. I miss the tarmac though I would prefer not to kiss it again. A storm brews in the distant mountains. We can only guess we will meet it half way.

We are of the opinion that, in the interest of caution, we must gain as much ground as we can before sunset. All of we, except me that is. For I stop at nothing to stop at everything that I can frame within the confines of my lens. I have since chosen to ride without my gloves on - an unwise decision in general - but one that allows me to shoot and zoom in record time. I am given grief for my antics for there is a mild panic in their stride. The chill factor in the winds that slam us has risen disproportionately. My fingers go numb but I continue to be adamant and gloveless with fingers that display an unsettling shade of black and blue. Spiderweb, Motorbreath and Aman, on numerous occasions, wait several minutes to allow me to catch up. I understand their frustration with me and yet, my deep seated karmic need to capture captures will prevent me from giving in.

As we approach Fotu-La, the wind turns vicious. Spiderweb calls for a stop for he must put on his mittens to keep his fingers from giving in. The sun is on its way out. It will be a few hours before it disappears on us and we dare not experience dark in the midst of a climb. Hurry we must. We know we are headed for trouble. 


There's more bad news... we've lost Aman for he is outside of our visual horizon. We can only hope we rendezvous with him before the weather turns on us. It is already displaying signs of treachery...

Section 3: The Journey > Chapter 22: Conquering Namika-La

June 6, 2010

We awaken to the smell of a late morning and the faint stench of Spiderweb's false promises of an early rise. The promise is old now; the deceit obvious. I've spent the night counting moans, Motorbreath's dreamy moans to be more specific. I am delighted at the particular discovery for just the night prior I have been accused of doing the same by the man who now lies before me whispering sweet nothings to an invisible damsel. Whereas as the author of this piece I can conjure up excuses for my own misgivings - I am asthmatic, the moans are on account of laboured breathing - the victim of my accusations shall have no such rock to shelter behind. He is open for ridicule, and ridicule him I will. Aman, despite our differences, chimes in for he was closer to the source than I. As we pack, suit up and find our way down one floor to reunite with our steeds, Motorbreath entertains Aman by falling off the stairs for no specific reason. True story. With no broken bones and a head full of laughter, we nudge on.

The morning so far has been sweet, soured only by Aman's off-the-cuff remark on his desire that I act my age; an attack I do not understand for I do not ridicule him for being young and I do not treat him as an imbecile. Had I considered him an unequal, I would not waste precious breath over lengthy arguments. I would simply ignore him. And that is precisely what I now set out to do for the friction bores me. But continue to ponder on the question of age I will. An answer lies in wait for me in the days to come.

I will learn about Kargil only now for in the day past, I was too fried to pry. And even though I've spent a large part of the day yester condensing pixels, I have no memory of it save for two moments - one where Aman willingly witnessed the demolishing of a beheaded goat's skull while I tried not to throw up and a second where Spiderweb did throw up while trying to hold down kebabs containing Yak meat. I do not know what chemical processes convert kebabs to vomit, but I assure you the puke cycle accomplishes its objective in the blink of an eye.

The structures in Kargil are no different from those in Drass except for the multitude. They are far more numerous. The population seems dense for a town that size, though vastly thinner in comparison to the city I once called home. The people seem less threatening now. Perhaps they are aware of our scheduled departure.

We turn our attention to fixing Spiderweb's steed. In addition to the gasps between revs, the tyre now seems to be flattening out and Spiderweb also suspects a faulty chain. We look for mechanics in vain for they have yet to stroll into their workspace. I deem the settlement to be one that starves and sleeps. We find one owner who knows only to tighten chains. For the tyre, we may have to wait much longer. As he gets to work on the steed, he informs us of a settlement ahead where we will find mechanics to do our bidding. We thank him for the information.

With the chain tightened and the tyre pressure maxed, we resume our journey. We must refuel for we are told that Mulbekh would be our last resource for fuel up until Leh. We take no chances and top up our tanks before exiting Kargil but not before we get trigger happy with our cameras, mingle with our fauji's and share a laugh with some children.

And onwards we go. We will break soon for Kargil, as was expected, has no breakfast to offer; merely empty goodbyes and promises of mechanics in a far away land. The road ahead will dampen our speed for it consists almost entirely of gravel and stone. But we have much ground to cover. Aman believes we will be in Leh by nightfall, reunited with the Puneri bandits. Spiderweb humours him with assurances of the same. We all know better. The road ahead serves up an exotic visual tapestry.

We find a stream once more and must make a mandatory stop. This time round, Aman is beside us and just as keen on getting his feet wet, literally and figuratively.

Many jumps, licks and tricks later, we speed ahead only to be drawn in to the scent of noodles and symbols of spirituality each occupying its side of the road. We get clicking again. 

A sumptuous meal and several laughs later, we are back on track. We won't get far for Spiderweb's steed starts losing air pressure quickly as it gasps for power. As my steed and I carry only a tail bag, there is plenty of room for saddle bags. I make the recommendation, we agree and we make adjustments.

The road beyond makes us feel minuscule for it presents a grand spectrum of all that is Nature. Its magnanimity belittles our senses for not in our wildest dreams can we soak in all it has to offer. Our lenses struggle to pixellate for there is too much to condense. They do what they can.

I worry about the additional weight I now carry. I worry about Spiderweb's steed for it sounds alien and weak. For now, both steeds will hold up. 

Before we know it, we conquer Namika-La, or more appropriately, it conquers us for we seek its presence to revere its might, not vice-versa.

With pixels saved and experiences experienced, we set forth on our journey once more. Motorbreath and Spiderweb ride ahead as I re-adjust the baggage to balance the weight. I jump onto my steed. Too fast, too furious. I lose control. Within moments, we, my steed and I, kiss the tarmac...