When I told a friend that I was going to India for ("only", according to him) 9 days, he mumbled: "yeah, sure, great, two days traveling to and from, right?". One has to go to India and feel the extent to which time is irrelevant there (and should be here provided the glorious West was not a space of mathematical frustration and constraints), in order to better approach life and enjoy every second of it, be it spicy or bland. Well, I was going for 9 days and I could have gone just for a sip of masala chai in Paharganj between two flights, and it would have still made all the sense in the world to me. But then, mumbling, mockery, envy and hatred, these are Romanians' national sports, so I anytime prefer the aforementioned chai to any attempt of changing the status quo in a country which does not want to get out of the Middle Ages, mire and misery it so perversely loves. I was already aware of the fact that India would mean many other journeys for me. This time the pretext was Ladakh's Mount Stok Khangri. But in fact I was going for the vibrating people, for the fragrances (or odours, call them as you may), respectively music (or noise, again, personal approach) in the air. Last but not least, I was going for the already necessary break from the ever more insipid European "developed" society and so called civilization which equals wiping off the last trace of humanity for the sake of a machine-created "perfection".

A three hour transit time at Delhi's airport was a risky (and therefore welcome) prospect from the very beginning, but the spice came with a short delay in our international flight's arrival, plus switching to the domestic terminal (which involved going around the whole thing on a bus driven by an what else but extremely calm, smiling Sikh. Eventually we made it in time, but only due to the fact that there were about 10 of us in the very same situation: two Romanians and some 8 hippy-like Russians, guitars included. Snow-capped peaks, dry ridges separated by long valleys hosting glaciers, the scenery enchanted the eye while we were approaching Leh, a long stripe of greenery set between arid ranges that seemed to stretch forever. Upon arrival at the airport, we were blocked there for a short while, as Dalai Lama was leaving after having paid a visit to some of the gompas in Ladakh. Differently from the Western security issues, everything was smooth enough and we were soon out of the airport. The "town proper" was almost entirely dedicated to (like in "meant for") tourists, which granted the place a hippy-looking mall touch. Buddhas in all shapes, appearances, respectively for all pockets, "very old" pieces of jewelry, as well as an endless list of restaurants serving from pizza and mantu to na'an and German sweets, all catered to a heterogeneous crowd ranging from hippies or hippy wannabees and all the way to tourists that were looking for a change from the hot summer in South India or to trekkers and people that wanted to get close to Tibet without actually going there. As for Tibet itself, beyond the sad fate of many of the emigrants fleeing the Chinese "good will" and too red a tape, the name had turned into a brand in Leh: I counted a few Tibetan refugee souvenir and handicraft markets, nearly all restaurants served Tibetan dishes, there were "Free Tibet" ads in cafeterias and one could buy T-shirts with the same text.

The places around the old town (structures with many small shops and a significant shoemaker / shoe repairer population seemingly) and new town (structures hosting hundreds of guesthouses and hotels) altogether were a real treat. Eventually a relatively new building, the Shanti Stupa was a peaceful place to leave it all behind and look over the city towards the Stok Khangri. The structure itself was an interesting combination of Buddhist and Hindu temple decorations; in a way, it took me back to Trichy's colourful temples. On the other side of the town, Namgyal Tsemo Gompa with its tall, Maitreyi Buddha figure, was simply enchanting, even though definitely not unique. The crumbling (but under slow pace restoration works) Leh Palace got more interesting as a strong wind appeared out of the blue was stirring the dirt and created an almost surreal haze in the strong sunlight. The dark clouds that soon joined the wind disappeared however before dark, allowing the whole valley to glitter in the dim light provided by countless stars.

I woke up in the morning with the rain tapping on the window. After a short car ride to Stok Village, we started going up the wide valley bordered by dry, barren ridges reminding one of the Hindukush. The sky slowly opened up and by the time we reached Mankarmo Camp, the imposing figure of the Stok Khangri could be noticed at the end of the valley, covered up in clouds. Going up to a 4900 m.a.s.l. peak provided both good acclimatization and a great view all around: to Stok Range including the Stok La, back to Leh, to the Ladakh Range and eventually even to the Stok Khangri, with its pyramidal, snow covered peak. In the afternoon we returned to the Mankarmo, where the evening passed away almost without knowing while talking to a group of Israeli trekkers. What had began like a sunny, cool day turned out into hours of pouring rain as we were going up the valley to the second camp. The dry, round ridges were continuing with snow-covered ridges. To the back, clouds parted for a while and we could see the summit with fresh snow on the higher part of the wall under it. But one's admiring the scenery was slowly denied as a thick layer of clouds lowered down. It was already 11 AM and the few that had gone to the Stok Khangri that night were already returning: "I reached the peak shortly before 7 AM, but I could not see a thing.", a German woman's experience welcomed us. In the same rain we went up to acclimatize, past the 5400 m.a.s.l. high camp that was deserted, given the weather conditions. The only change there was that the rain had turned into snow. Not far from the camp, we saw several marmots relaxedly moving along our path. At Bogdan's question regarding their not being afraid of people as they were in Kyrgyzstan, the answer came short:

"We are Buddhist, we do not kill them, so they are not afraid of us."

Regarding the weather, our guide could not but say:

"It is the first rain I have met this season in the mountains."

In the early evening, we decided to attempt going up unless the weather turned into a storm.

"I have called my wife and she has gone to the gompa to pray we get good weather for tomorrow's ascent" the guide said. We were supposed to start at 1 AM. The "official" line was that this ensured our getting down before noon, hence avoiding the frequent afternoon storms. My impression is that the guide wanted to ensure enough time to return to Leh the same day.

The rain had stopped by the time we started and we were the first of three groups of trekkers. At around 5300 m.a.s.l. the scenery changed, as we met an always thicker layer of fresh snow one had not seen the day before. Crossing the big glacial valley and starting on the way up to the ridge with no traces at all and no other people ahead of us, it soon became clear that our guide knew the path well; the only issue was that now the path lay 30-40 cm. under the snow, so that he was feeling his way up, a few times going way too much to the East before we reached the ridge. The fact that it was still night when we did so did not help much. The clouds opened up a few times, and the stars seemed to reflect the few head torches of the two groups some 1 hour behind us. The ridge was relatively dramatic, especially on the opposite side from that we had climbed. Only once we got the chance to glance Zanskar Range under the dark clouds; the sun rays embracing their ridges warmed us a bit at least. It was windy and foggy, while the many loose stones partly hidden by snow did not make our advancing any easier.  We reached the peak just before 8 AM, after funnily going around it due to the bad weather. The top of Stok Khangri is more like a 30 m. stretch of round ridge, centered by poles on which people set strings of prayer flags. And that was pretty much all we could see, with the fog surrounding us.

The way down was smooth, with the snow starting to melt in the lower area. The sky turned clear a few times, and the views were rewarding as we were going down. As opposed to going down to the all tourist ghetto Leh the same day, we decided to spend one more night at the 5000 m.a.s.l. camp, chatting over a masala chai cup in the "hotel" labeled kitchen tent of the camp attendant. It was bitterly cold during the night and the ground was frozen in the morning. The clouds went away a few times and allowed fine views to the snow-covered ridge and peaks. It was getting warmer as we started as we started going down. A few groups of trekkers were heading up followed by seemingly endless lines of horses and mules carrying their luggage, kerosene stoves, tents and mattresses. We eventually reached Leh again, with its plethora of souvenir shops, German bakeries ruled by an "authentic Western baker", crowded bazaars, persistent carpet sellers, package tourists, trekkers, world wanderers or Jesus-Christ-off-the-cross would be-s. Of all foreigners there, the latter seemed to be the most picturesque but nevertheless false. They enjoyed the easy to come around location (a couple of flights a day from Delhi or a cheaper but a couple of days longer bus ride from Manali), the locals that spoke relatively good English and most of the signposts that were conveniently in English as well. Paying some 500 rupees on a pair of loose, bright green trousers and a flower power blouse, smoking dope and adopting a philosophical aura is probably easier than taking things as they are. Seemingly (but only that) at the other end of the spectrum, all inclusive tourists stayed in oasis-like hotels well isolated from the town centre noise, enjoyed group meals and traveled in wide SUVs to various gompas and mountain passes, where one would hear them complain about the weather, roads' being too tough or food's being too spicy.

The following day I woke up at 6 and headed to the small shop where I had arranged to rent a bicycle the day before, as I wanted to cycle up to Khardung La. It started raining before I even left the shop and the chilly wind did not make it any better. Wearing the stiff trekking boots (as I had not planned cycling and had not brought any low sport shoes), I could hardly feel the pedals. Other than that, the relatively well paved road climbed in wide switchbacks on the quite steady, barren slopes. Seeing a few other cyclists on the road a few kilometers behind me cheered me up and I reached the South Pollu checkpoint, in a strong wind, respectively in a heavy snowfall some two hours after starting. The road farther up was closed due to the snowfall which - I was told - had started the day before. Shortly after I arrived at the checkpoint, a Czech cycling guide and his group slowly got there as well.

"We were not prepared for this" he said, while some of his fellows were shivering in summer lycra bike pants.

It was the 4th consecutive year he had groups of cyclists in Ladakh and the first time they experienced this kind of weather. For me, it was already a deja-vu, only that I was cycling and not trekking this time. Other than that, I could not but wonder when (or rather if) I should ever meet a group of Romanian cyclists up in the mountains, some 5000 km. away from home, doing the same with those people. Instead, I could very well see people laughing and drivers mocking at cyclists in "lovely, surprising, unspoiled" (take it as you may) Romania.

After sharing some apricots and biscuits with the officer in charge of the check post, I decided to go farther up, together with the Czech guide that shortly afterwards overtook me and a few of his group. The road surface was no longer of the same quality and, some 6 km. after leaving South Pollur, it turned into a dirt road one could hardly notice it had been paved once, long ago. The curves were much wider and, after passing by a transmission repeater, the road began going steadily up without any switchbacks. About 5 km. before Khardung La, it became covered in snow which had been hardened by the already strong wind. One kilometer later I started walking by the bicycle instead of riding it and later on I left it, while continuing on foot, as ice made cycling tough and my brake pads got frozen and clogged with snow. A short while up, I passed by three trucks that were stuck in the snow on the road, while their drivers were trying to warm up sitting in the cabin with the engine turned on. The blizzard was at its strongest in the 5359 m.a.s.l. pass on "world's highest motorable road" (well, not that true a statement if one did not believe the official 5602 m.a.s.l. elevation and looked at his / her GPS / altimeter instead). But then, as the Czech guide said: "they are always making things look bigger, you know, this is India". Hell yes, but they know how to enjoy life too. Some soldiers at the checkpoint in the pass invited me inside to "relax a little" near their kerosene stove. But time was running short and 5 minutes later I started on the way back. After walking to the bicycle, I began pedaling down along the snowy, then muddy, deserted road: my hands almost froze in the Polartec gloves as I was going down, while the snow turned back into rain as I approached Leh, where I got at the sunset. Back in town, I had some mutton momos joined by chai to end a day which had felt better, more accomplishing than the ascent to Stok Khangri even.

The following day was about lent and prayer. To put it more precisely, a Muslim had killed a Buddhist in Kashmir. So, the whole area was to be on strike for a full day to show its protest against this situation. This was to include private businesses except for transport. It felt strange to walk across the deserted town at dawn, looking at the disoriented backpackers in search of a breakfast place. Instead of doing the same (and with enough food supplies in our backpacks left from the mountain trekking), we took a minibus to two of the area's gompas: Hemis and Stakna. The scenery was almost peculiar, with the turquoise Indus bordered by lush vegetation, respectively the completely barren, sandy valley and ridges around it. The two gompas provided joyful colour patches in this landscape, with the former's serene, peaceful location, respectively the latter's intimate, captivating atmosphere. In the late afternoon we returned to Leh on a bus driven by a 15 year old boy, to find the town in the same sleepy mood, with tourists wandering at random in search of anything open.

White fuel camping stove on the guesthouse room table turned on, it felt strange to be in a town in India and cook instant chicken curry packed in the Netherlands, but the only alternative to that was fasting and praying. And while I have nothing against fasting, I did not know to whom I was supposed to pray: the god in the name of a man had killed another man or the (same) god in the name of a whole town / area was mourning the dead. Or maybe (and rather) I was supposed to pray the name of either prophets and not the name of the god. Well, that I would not do. Ever. As for forced fasting and praying, that was even a "greater" idea. Which not even all locals respected, with the Little Italy and a few other restaurants open in an undercover mood; i.e. more expensive and only for those in the know. So, steam all over the room and cups full of green tea, we started packing, as the Paharganj was calling us to life (as opposed to fasting and praying to man made differences), and that was nothing I wanted to resist.

And indeed, an early start, a next to perfectly clear morning sky thinking at the climbers getting close to the peak of Stok Khangri at that hour, heads turned towards the smiling mountain while saying farewell to its glory, we turned towards the airport. All kinds of labels, security scans, luggage check-ins and identifications, respectively stamps sorted, we eventually got on the Delhi-bound flight. I was to sit next to a mid-aged, French couple.

"Romanians, we have met a few in Leh and up the mountains for the last few days; 6 of them or so."

It actually proved they had met us two in Stok Khangri's base camp, the same us two at Summer Harvest Restaurant in Leh and we all had been trying to avoid the fasting and praying of the strike day by going to the gompas. This way, the 6 Romanians in Ladakh turned out to actually be two Romanians multiplied by three different situations. Or, to put it another way, the rest of the Romanians were enjoying yet another cake and a one more glass of whisky in an all inclusive resort, farts all around.

It was sunny when we reached Delhi. As the captain put it, 28 degrees Celsius. Only that with a lot of humidity it felt like 45 degrees Celsius.

And then, there I found myself in Paharganj, where nothing had changed much / at all and hopefully nothing will ever change. Spending the day while crossing the city in rickshaws or on foot, respectively before the night flight out (as opposite to "back home"), I all of a sudden remembered my friend's words some two weeks before: "yeah, sure, great, two days traveling to and from, right?". Then I instantly realized my only concern was not that I was leaving India after such a short period of time, but rather that I was going to Europe for such a long period of time. Time we are killing our own selves while chasing here in Europe instead of the time they do not care about while breathing, laughing and actually living there, in India.