Like a beast unburied after a long hibernation, my blog breaths again.

It’s been quite a while since my last post, but this time I have a valid excuse (for half the lapse anyway.)

Part I: Joining the party

Last week I joined the continuing search for missing Israeli traveler Amichai Steinmitz.

An experienced trekker and former member of one of Israel’s elite military units, Steinmitz set off on a relatively benign day-trek from Khiraganga, a small tourist trap of a town in the Paravati Valley in the Indian Himalayas.

A religious Jew, Steinmitz was scheduled to make it back to Kalga, another town near Kasol in the Paravati Valley, in time for the Friday evening Shabbat service at the local Jewish house.

He left on a Thursday nearly two weeks ago and no sign has been seen of him since.

Rewind to the last Monday in July. Location: Old Manali

My friend Ilan and I, after a lengthy debate, decided to eat at People, a local restaurant catering to the tastes of travelers.

We knew we wanted to sit outside, but the tables in the back of the restaurant are dominated by thousands of flies.

Now, it must be said that this is not uncommon in India, where nearly every restaurant, dhaba, and eatery has a healthy (or unhealthy) population of flies.

In this case the flies drove us to the front of People, where we figured it was better to deal with diesel fumes rather than millions of buzzing, shit-eating parasites.

While downing an Indian breakfast and set breakfast respectively, Ilan and I were approached by a local Chabadnic.
Chabad houses are Jewish centers founded in locals heavily populated by Israeli travelers. They offer religious ceremonies, kosher food and various other services mainly to Israelis, but also any Jewish people from around the world.

Being a gentile myself, I’ve come to find they’ll serve the occasional goy as well.

The Chabad Houses are staffed by Orthodox Jews, often called Chabadnics.

So, anyway, Levi (pronounced levy as in that thing to which you drive your Chevy, not Levi as in the denim moguls) one of the Manali Chabadnics, stopped by and invited Ilan, an Israeli, and I to join the search for Steinmitz in Kasol.

For reasons, which even after seven bee stings and countless miles combed still remain a mystery, Ilan and I agreed.
Packing our things and checking out of our guesthouse in 30 minutes, we mad it to the Chabad house in time to board a Jeep to Kasol.

After the 2-hour ride to Kasol we continued on to Kalga, a small backwater full of guesthouses and restaurants.

Kalga is not accessible even to the hardest of the hardcore vehicles, so we were dropped at what seemed, at best, to be a mining colony. We then hiked about 30 minutes into the apple-orchard dominated town filled with colorful guesthouses and tiny stores.

After a briefing by the elite search team sent by Steinmitz’s insurance company we went to sleep in a room hardly large enough to house a queen sized bed.

There was electricity, but the thing smelled of cedar and smacked of summer camp. The bathroom was a squat toilet and bucket-shower room located about a city block away from the bedrooms of all of the sleeping searchers.

PART II: The Search begins

The next morning, Tuesday by all accounts, Ilan and I woke at 5:30 to meet the rest of the group at 6.

About 35 volunteers gathered before the stout and experienced looking rescue team to learn what awaited them in the wild. Those gathered were divided into two teams. The two groups were scheduled to make opposing circles.

Team one, of which Ilan and I became members, would leave Kalga, trek to Bunbuni, then Khiraganga and back again. Team two, the opposite, Kulga to Khiraganga, Bunbuni then back.

We left early in the morning full of energy and hope. We felt we would find at least a sign that Steinmitz had passed long his intended route. Many thought we might find him alive, bringing him back to safety and civilization.

Our team of around 17 people struck up a hill toward Bunbuni with a sky grey with the threat of future rain. We started quickly; fast slowing to spread out and search. Small groups strayed from the path to look for signs of Steinmitz.

We strained our eyes for his red shirt or yellow tent, hoped to see a backpack with his camera and prayer book. But, by noon, we were worn out from the constant vertical climbing and becoming demoralized by the thickening fog and the looming rain.

By the time we reached Bunbuni most of us were soaked to the bone, disheartened and in a mild state in disbelief that the place we sat had a name.

Bunbuni is simply a collection of three shacks, two for human and animal habitation and one for cooking.
A family of Muslim herders gathers here every season to send their cows afield to graze on the verdant green grass of the Himalayan meadow on which the shacks are arranged.

The monsoon had arrived in Bunbuni about a half an hour before we did and the whole mountaintop was almost as saturated as we were. The green of a field, which would give any suburbanite lawn envy, was covered in the thick fog of a heavy rain which stuck to the ground like Velcro until well after we left.

We stayed in the family’s shacks for about an hour and enjoyed chai while drying our socks, shirts, jackets and selves next to their small cooking fires. Standing in the hut meant sticking your head into a dense thicket of smoke, which blinded the eyes, sent tears raining down cheeks and snot flowing from noses.

Once the rain abated a bit, we set out to try and make Khiraganga by nightfall.

Walking this time in a careful single file, we picked our way down a path, which seemed more a rivulet and at some points waterfall.

It was easy to outwardly lament our fate as our shoes began to squish with saturation and our skin began to prune, but turning a corner, my breath, words and negativity were knocked out of my body by what may be the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen.

Looking up, all that was visible was the face of a giant mountain half-shrouded in a thick fog of low sitting clouds.

Above and below these clouds, the mountain was alive with water. Coursing like veins into a central gulch, waterfalls colored and shaped the granite faces of the Himalayan behemoths.

My vocabulary was limited to a string of single-syllable curse words. I became a stuttering monosyllabic idiot, incapable of anything more eloquent than simply, “wow.”

Continuing, we slipped and slid down the watery way. We came to a roaring mountain stream fueled by hours of heavy rain.

We forded the waterway carefully and, might I add, fool-heartedly with the help of a porter who stood fearlessly on a log bracing us against the heavy flow of water racing down a steep mountain’s face.

Thoroughly soaked and shivering uncontrollably, we made it to a rushing river of the brand a white water enthusiast has recurring dreams. The gurgling, spewing, mountain shaping river stood between us and Khiraganga.

Surging with the strength of all the collected streams, rivulets waterfalls and melting snowfall, the river was impassable. So, with the rain easing and the clouds beginning to clear we were faced with the unenviable prospect of returning to Bunbuni.

Moral was at an all time low and exchanges like, “If I die, tell my family I love them,” were exchanged only half-jokingly.

Stay tuned for the ascent and more searching in parts III and IV tomorrow!

All the pictures in this post were taken by Ilan Hugger.

Tuesday I had cause to celebrate.

Firstly (because it originally happened so long ago), it was my 28th birthday.

Secondly, we wrapped up shooting on our never-ending, but nonetheless fabulous, first project.

We shot our last interview in a hostel, home to 20 Indian girls who range in age from about 6 to 14.
They sang me happy birthday!

I’ll let my expression tell the story for me:

If for some reason the video doesn’t work, try following this link.

Tristan captured this on his 5d Mark II. We then compressed the hell out of it (read: ruined it) so the archaic Indian Internet could handle the upload.

While down in Dharamshala to finish filming, we bought more of the amazingly fantastic fireworks we purchased for the Fourth.

Here’s a picture our friend Eric from Seattle took of the explosive’s Independence Day iteration.

He has a blog. It chronicles his recent Tibetan adventures and continuing Indian saga. Check it out.

It’s hard to imagine a place further away from the land of root beer, apple pie and hot dogs, but Tristan and I were determined this fourth of July to celebrate in style.

This being said, we set out early on an odyssey to buy all things American, and some stuff to blow up.

On our way to Dharmshala we made a stop in McLeod for a soda and happened upon a true gem, an expired can of Budweiser. The red white and blue label called to us from the bottom of a cooler and heeding its siren’s call we shelled out the $3 US for one can.

The pictures alone may be worth the price. We tasted the sweet, skunky golden waters of St Louis, MO and savored every bit before offering the can up to the Indian countryside.

Verily, a taste of home.

Later, after an exhaustive search of the city we found what may be Dharamshala’s only cache of fireworks.

At our wits end, we asked the proprietor of the very last store we came to on the road back to McLeod if he knew where we could buy fireworks.

His reply was simply, “Yes, come in.”

Thinking he didn’t understand us, or may be joking, “No, fireworks, fire works, you have them?”

Indeed he did.

Handing over Rp.120 ($2.50ish) for each of six tubes of questionable explosive strength we headed out to find some kitsch.

I’m fairly confident we bought Dharamshala clean out of American flag bandanas.

They had fifty stars and we’ll ignore the number of stripes (25) but they nearly screamed our one-day nationalist fervor and they were ours.

Heading back we picked up a bottle of whiskey, had some apple pie with ice cream, couldn’t find any root beer and invited our new Israeli friends to an Independence Day party on the roof of our guest house.

As darkness fell our bottle of Pioneer whiskey became lighter and our excitement mounted. This was our first run-in with Indian fireworks, and quite a run-in it was.

Not sure whether to expect the shimmering disappointment of a fountain of sparks, or the exhilaration of some sort of pyrotechnic accident, we lit the first of the fireworks and it was glorious.

Shooting into the sky, tailed by a cascade of golden fire our rocket leapt from its cardboard home. Exploding with the dazzle and noise of a professional firework the blossom of light filling the sky left me speechless.

Well, nearly speechless, I was able to mumble a string of excited expletives in between chortles of amazed laughter.

As the last of our explosions faded from the sky our neighbor, Russel launched into a particularly rousing rendition of “God Bless America.”

Here’s a sample of his singing from one of the daily jams at our guest house:

Russel Jamming

Ultimately, we had a mixed bag of nationalities show up to  rather subdued, but fun party in honor of the birth of a country on the other side of the world.

Breaking free of the culture of perpetual jams, snacks and general laziness, Tristan and I began working in earnest Monday. We devoted an eye-taxing six hours in front of computers cutting up interviews and trying to overcome the notorious 5-D Mark II audio drift which has now become the bane of my existence.

Holed up in our guest house while the first day of monsoon struck Dharamkot outside, we learned a whole new vocabulary while trying to best technology’s shortcomings.

We synchronized audio at a subframe level,  streamclipped and learned all about keyframes. Meanwhile, just under our balcony our hebrew neighbors tried to lure us out to dance in the rain.

It was a tempting offer, but like the (insert manly diligent, probably military metaphor here) before us we strove toward our goal.

The fun stuff being mostly over, we’ve begun the first and most tedious parts of production.

While we toll away in dark rooms over brilliantly captured audio and video, the sounds of Hebrew folk music wafts in through our open windows.

You see, Dharamkot is little Israel here in Dharamshala. Most of our new-found friends are Israeli and I’ve learned far more Hebrew than Hindi.

Had someone told me a year ago I’d be hanging out in the Indian Himalayas with a bunch of Israelis, I would have been forced to question their sanity.

Life certainly is happily and wonderfuly bizarre.

Sunday, I struck out with some Israeli friends I met at our guesthouse.

After eating Japanese in McLeod, we trekked up to Bhagsu. There, I was privileged to watch and take part in some sort of ruckus sunset ceremony.

The Japanese restaurant (a couple of weeks ago):

Taking place inside a colorful temple, the general aim of the observance, as explained by a fellow onlooker, was to make noise.

Bells of every timber cascaded off of the granite walls and floors of the temple. Ringing, banging and clanging the bells were a small group of children and an Indian man.

The temple itself was a two-story building with two stairwells which went into a fake cave filled with statues of Hindu gods. The stairwells were made to look like those who entered were walking into, or out of a lions mouth.

Inside inside the dentured gate the walls of the stairs became a cave a-la Disney or Casa Bonita. Accompanied by the man and two small girls, one of which attempted to jump out and scare us, my friend Shae and I were forced to crawl at one point inside the cavern.

Still ringing bells the man paused before each idol bathing them in pungent incense smoke.

After finishing this ritual he and the children sat to sing and chant.

Overall an interesting experience.

Here’s a photo Tristan took today.

Visit his blog for more.

Nearly a tenement due to neglect, I plan to dust off the cobwebs of my blog and start writing again.

Since last I posted here, Tristan and I started on a story and my guts fell victim to another attack.

This time it seemed a whole troupe of trolls donning golf shoes decided to put on a season of “Stomp” in my stomach and intestines.

I’m recovering slowly and nearing the end of my 10-day course of amoebacide. After receiving rave reviews for their performances, the gaggle of trolls have moved on to a larger stage.

For our first story, we’re following Chris, a self-styled circus performer, as he trains children how to juggle, walk tightropes and all other things clown.

His pupils hail from a tent-city slum in Dharamsala. They have been taken out of the slum and given the opportunity to attend school and generally be children. Tong Len, the program with which Chris is allied, provides room and board for the children as long as they don’t make any money.

In the slum’s families the primary earners are often the children.

Today we watched the students perform for their families outside of their homes.

The slum is largely comprised of huts, tents and lean-tos with black tarp roofs and general detritus serving as walls. The entrance to community is a hole in the brick wall off of one of Dharmsala’s main drags, It is probably a square mile, has its own network of paths and even a small general store.

The first thing that sruck me as an American, is the sense that, yes, your pocket may be picked, but the threat of physical violence — perceived or otherwise —doesn’t exist.

Tristan caught a small child with its hand in his back pocket on his wallet. Otherwise the people were helpful and friendly.

The Tong Len children, despite being from the slum, were easy to pick out amongst their peers. Those that stayed to earn money or otherwise were caked with a layer of filth. Many didn’t have pants and some had hair which bordered on dreadlocks.

Despite their situation, the children played, laughed and were just as adorable as children anywhere else.

The biggest and most humbling surprise, however came from an adult and requires a bit of back-story.

About two weeks ago Tristan went to the hospital with amoebas of his very own. While we were waiting for a doctor, Tristan was waiting for a bathroom to empty so he could tend to his overwhelming nausea.

A genuinely caring and kind Indian man helped him up to the second floor bathroom. He wasn’t an employee of the place, and he had nothing to gain. Just a true and simple act of compassion.

He even asked how Tristan was twice, before saying goodbye on his way out.

Fast forward to today in the middle of the slum. The same man was helping set up the stage.

Despite crushing poverty, chief among his concerns for the day we spent in hospital, was making sure Tristan was okay.

Things are beginning to look up.

I’m not yet 100 percent, but I’m feeling well enough to explore McLeod, be generally personable and indulge in a bit of circus training.

We haven’t begun chasing any stories in earnest yet, but we have made some headway by laying groundwork.

Today, I tried my hand at tightrope walking and juggling.

Tristan and I met Chris, our patient and enthusiastic teacher of the arts circus, at a park in McLeod.

There, after having my shoes darned by Deepak, a local teen, we partook in a pre-performance stretch routine then learned the basics of juggling.

Along with a small group of others I also, with the help of Deepak, attempted a bit of tightrope acrobatics.

No, amazingly, I didn’t manage to hurt myself.

It was inspiring to see Deepak afforded the opportunity to act like a kid.

A resident of the nearby Dharamshala slum, Deepak told me that his mother pulled him out of school after his father died. The family needed additional income so, Deepak took to the streets with a mobile cobbling station.

Today however, he was afforded the opportunity to juggle, tightrope walk and generally play in the park.

Later in the afternoon, while purchasing a some soft-serve, a Tibetan nun grabbed my arm.

As an already jaded traveller, my first reaction was to say no to what I assumed was an entreaty for money.

But, as I turned around the elderly nun  pointed to a cone, asking me to buy one for her. I couldn’t find it in the deepest hollows of my heart to say no.

So here’s a picture:

Tristan took all the photos on my blog today. He also snapped this photo of me languishing in the hospital:

Check out his blog for more, even better pictures.

It’s been a second since I last blogged.

Since then, I’ve spent two days at a hospital, and a couple languishing in our hotel room.

Thursday, Tristan awoke under gastrointestinal duress. The kind of duress that sent us directly to the nearby Tibetan Delek Hospital. Saturday, I awoke under similar circumstances and the trip was made again.

The facility was built with Italian money to directly serve Tibetans in exile. It staffs at least one western doctor and resembles slightly, a miniature US hospital. It sits on a hill overlooking lower Dharamshala, across the street from the Tibetan Congress.

We took our places in what appeared to be a chaotic waiting room, after paying Rp.10 for a seemingly arbitrary number to be seen by the doctor.

In classic Indian fashion, appearances were deceiving, as the whole thing operated more efficiently than most U.S, emergency rooms.

Not to weigh the post down with details, the long and the short of our combined visits is, Tristan and I have Amoebas swimming around in our guts.

This not only makes it difficult to concentrate but magnifies homesickness and inflates the abject disdain I have for the Indian teenagers playing soccer just outside my window.

Their game follows three days of Indian girls chatting and screaming just outside our guesthouse door.

The universe alined, and Tristan and I fell ill just as an Indian tour group of children and teenagers descended upon Paul’s house in otherwise quiet Dharamkot.

In between ear-plugged naps, I’ve had the pleasure of trying to read while listening to Hindi screamed over English, yelled over some sort of mixture of the two.

All the while, I’ve tried to suck down hydration salts, which taste as if someone pissed in your Tang before bringing it to the moon.

As I finish this post, the children outside argue whether a goal was scored and I resign myself to quietly sipping stale-flavored salty citrus water and trying to ignore the tumult.

Monday, Tristan, Adam and I made the rickety rickshaw ride from Dharamkot down to McLeod to buy some warm clothes, and ended up catching a movie.

We each payed Rp.100 to watch a pirated version of the new “Star Trek” movie.

A quarter of the movie was cropped off and occasionally a Russian subtitle flashed across the bottom, linking to the bootleg online. The title screen read “tar tre”

The theater itself was a series of office chairs situated on metal crates. The walls were lined with blue fabric and the screen was illuminated by a projector which read “please replace bulb.”

Despite this, I nearly forgot we were in a theater in India. It wasn’t until the lights went on and I looked down to see a metal framework through a torn burlap sack that I remembered where I was.

This interlude was especially welcome because it came on the heals of my first serious bout with homesickness.

On my way to use the internet I found a child wrestling with his goat. The goat won and escaped up the street. The child, ran the opposite direction crying while the local men laughed.

What an odd place.

For you pleasure, here’s the last known picture of my umbrella alive. It succumbed to the pressures of being used as a walking stick for a week, falling to pieces.

Tristan took the photo, go to his blog for more.