Ok, so, by tomorrow I think I meant the next time I have access to a reliable Internet connection.

Now, I’m back in Delhi and have just that, although the connection resembles that of the United States circa the year 1997.

I’ll upload more pictures as soon as I find a connection that allows.

To catch you up after weeks and weeks of non-blogging, we had searched high and found ourselves low. Near a rumbling, raucous river the leaders of the group searching for lost Israeli Amichai Steinmetz, contemplate the next course of action…

Part III: The re-assent

Standing by the impassible river, shivering uncontrollably and staring at a small sliver of grey, drizzling sky, we slowly come to terms with the fact that we had to climb back up to Bunbuni.

This meant, a climb back up slippery trails that more closely resemble small mountain streams than usable passageways, hours spent shivering in the cold, re-crossing an actual icy stream and at least four more hours of hiking.

Originally optimistic, our moral had gone the way of the weather and our body temperatures.

A grumpy group, we started to make the climb. With a porter in front who seemed determined to make the trip back to Bunbuni in record time, we quickly became separated.

I became a part of a small group that waited for the rear guard to catch up, leaving us with a porter of our own and seven searchers. Again, the separation dented moral, but our situation began to improve with the climb and passage of time.

By the time we reached the summit of the hill, the sun had killed the clouds leaving a blue sky and breath taking views. Ahead of us were muddy but vibrant green meadows.

It was to be smooth sailing from there.

We stopped to enjoy some rolls and peanut butter among the crushingly large mountains that surrounded us. The size and starkness of the Himalayan peaks when coupled with the solemnity of the search combined to inspire some deep introspection.

Lucky for us, peanut butter and a couple of happy snaps bonded the group and improved our attitudes. For an hour it was smiles all around.

Approaching Bunbuni, the smiles turned again into wide mouthed disbelief. We were again assaulted by the beauty of the place as the clouds had lifted nearly completely.

The shacks in which we had earlier weathered the storm were immersed in a sea of green and buttressed by mountains of awesome splendor.

We reunited with the group, only to quickly separate again. But this time it was planned. Seven people would stay behind in Bunbuni to continue the search from there, while the rest of us would hike back down to Kalga.

Ilan stayed at Bunbuni, while I returned to Kalga.

The pace back down the mountain was break-neck, but after a few slips and slides everyone made it safely.

We reported to the Jewish house in town and were promised a briefing later in the night.

Part IV: The re-re-assent

That night, I reported to the meeting.

They were handing out assignments of varying difficulty and offered Daniel, a member of my original search party and I an easy hike to neighboring Tosh.

Foolishly, however after hearing that members of Steinmetz’s elite military unit would be headed to Kiraganga, our original destination, I decided to tag along on what would be a more-than-grueling sprint up the mountain.

After making the five-hour hike to Kiraganga in three, we climbed a muddy mountain to try and cover more ground between Kiraganaga and Bunbuni. This hike proved to be far less scenic than those of the previous days and also more taxing.

For every step up the mountain we seemed to slip half a step back, but eventually we made it to the top and were greeted by a green meadow reminiscent of the opening scenes of “The Sound of Music.”

I expected to see a singing nun around every bend.

After moving on from the enchanted green plateau, we spotted the group that had stayed in Bunbuni. We met them for snacks and gazed down at the river whose fury had stymied our first attempt to make it to Kiraganga.

The lion of a river had become nothing more than a kitten, easily passable, making the tales I told of an angry river look like the worst type of hyperbole.

After some snacks and peanut butter we searched a small valley, then headed back to our new home, Kiraganga.

Founded, it seems as a tourist trap, Kiraganga is nothing more than a series of traveler-catering guesthouses and restaurants situated just below a natural hot spring.

Butressed by craggy peaks, Kiriganga raises like a multi-colored hippy traveler’s dream from the green fields of a Himalayan meadow. Tarp covered buildings give way to a temple at the top of the hill surrounding the holy hot springs.

Trekkers, travelers and locals are all welcome to bathe in the sulfur-smelling waters of the springs. After hours of hiking in canvas vans with a messenger bag, I certainly took full advantage of the hot and smelly waters.

Kiriganga would be our home for four more days of searching, during which we would find no sign of Steinmetz. After 7 bee stings, countless bumps, scrapes and bruises, and loads of blisters my good friend Ilan and I would join a group returning to Manali.

For more information on the continuing search for Steinmetz visit 4amichai.org.

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.

Tristan, Adam and I planned on leaving Delhi today for Dharamshala in a deluxe Volvo bus. But, we have to settle for leaving tomorrow in a Tata “air conditioned” bus.

The bus station is hard to describe.

It’s a large, dim cavernous building with tall ceilings and skylights. Though the architecture suggests it was was erected in the early 70′s, its walls are a crumbling, lead paint-covered relic of some bygone era. They are caked in every sort of detritus Delhi has to offer, which I’m learning, seems to be limitless. The station has an open design with three floors. The main floor is dominated by an atrium which reaches the roof.

To call it an atrium or open is generous, as the building resembles a catacomb more than a work of modern architecture.

The whole thing is beautifully lit by skylights, through which large sheaths of light catch the dust to become crooked columns. These supply the only brightness for a market area in the center of the place. Here you can buy anything from shoes to street food.

It rained earlier in the day and to get to the ticket counter, which is on the second floor we had to navigate a series of swamps rivers and ponds. This is made more complicated by little squeegee totting cave dwellers which appear to be hell-bent on spreading the trash strewn water targeting already dampened shoes.

After securing tickets, Tristan and I took a gastronomic gamble on some samosas which were spicy, crusty and delicious.

My bag went in red and emerged the color of the Delhi’s burnt clay streets.

In short I feel a bit like I did some urban spelunking.

Check out pictures at Tristan’s blog.

We’re official! Well, that is according to our swanky new business cards.

Yesterday, Tristan, Adam and I braved the 115 degree heat — hot even by Indian standards — to wrap up a couple of errands.

We went to the computer market in Nehru Place, near Adam’s house. Here are some photos:

As the sweltering evening wore into sultry night we visited the South Asia Foreign Correspondents Club.

It was an interesting mix of professional journalists and photographers, thrown together by their common experience. It was encouraging to see so many successful journalists working in Delhi. It helped underscore that it is certainly possible to support one’s self in India as a freelancer.

It’s definitely going to take a lot of work. I’m looking forward to getting started in earnest.

Last night Tristan, Nalis, Adam and I struck out for a night on the town. We were on the list for F Bar, owned by FashionTV here in Delhi.

The bar is located in the base of a 5-star hotel and was playing host to a French cover band. The dirt-rockers played a mix of English and  French Rock and Roll to the most culturally diverse crowd I’ve ever seen.

Sikhs with gray beards and colorful turbans mixed with hopping Europeans and young Indians in shiny clothing. The bar was a long flat florescent light and LED’s sparkled on the walls. The sweaty band hammered out tributes to the Rolling Stones and Buddy Holly.

After days of walking the dusty street markets and mingling with the country’s lower casts it was interesting to see how India’s elite partied. It seemed a parody of everything sheik in the west.I imagine the bars at Euro Disney are much the same. We weren’t sure we wanted to stay.

After some deliberation we decided to let the drink prices decide our fate. In a country where a night in a decent guest house costs Rp150 ($3 US), a Heineken with glycerin at F Bar costs Rp450 ($9 US).

We decided to leave.

On our way out of the hotel we passed a traditional Indian wedding. I’m fairly certain it was in the reception phase at this point, but we were invited in. A kind gentleman explained he was a colleague of the bride’s father grabbed us and encouraged us to have a bite to eat. He handed us fruit drinks, telling Adam and Tristan to snap as many photos as they pleased.

Apparently it’s common for people to crash weddings in India. Here another guest is considered a blessing not a burden.

Today, was a different story.

The local expats have a name for this story, Delhi belly.

I won’t go into detail, but i took a picture to summarize my day:

At 110 dusty degrees Delhi is a cacophony of smells.

Leaving Adam’s place, there’s the sweet dusty scent of the neighborhood streets, then the stale hint of urine near the corner men have arbitrarily chosen to evacuate their bladders.

Onwards, the unique aroma of a spice market mixes with the already hot musk of an Indian afternoon.

There’s the diesel fumes of gas-powered electric generators in the nicer markets, and the cilantro flavored scent of street vendors carts.

The camera market’s air is flavored slightly by musty mud, while the tailors’ market smells of moth eaten fabrics and antiques.

Then, standing above and beyond the rest, the meat market looms like a reeking, rotten sheep’s head. The combination of fish, tripe and fetid pools of stagnant blood combine with dried chicken carcasses and that of larger, more pungent animals to send the stomach throatward. The already thick Delhi air, is turned abjectly foul and escape is found only in the clothes vendor’s Nag Champa.

Never have I been so happy to smell the dorm-room sweetness of cheap incense.

Now, my first slideshow for your pleasure:

Tristan and I, with the help of Adam, went on a mission to set up our phones yesterday. I’m proud to report, we were successful.

Prepaid cellphone service in India costs about 1 rupee per minute. That’s 2 American cents. So, with the cost of activating a sim card good through 2012 (the purported end of the world) with 599 minutes of talk time, including free Airtel to Airtel calls was Rp600.

That’s around $12 American for those keeping score.

To get cell phone service in India as a foreigner feels a little bit like applying for a visa to Iran. You’re required to present a passport sized photo and your passport with a photocopy of your visa and picture pages.

You present these to the semi-confused cell phone store employees. They work as a team to activate the SIM card. You sign your name a million times and voila, a phone that works in India!

My first full day in Delhi was a study in contrasts.

Striking out with Tristan and my new friends, Adam and Nalis, I experienced my first taste of “real India.”

To get around we rode the city’s shiny new metro, which easily rivals any other notable subway. It’s cleaner than New York, quieter than Munich and more high-tech than D.C..

Exiting at Chawri Bazaar, a large teeming series of markets on dusty streets around Jama Masjid, India’s largest Mosque. There, the streets were crowded with bicycle powered rickshaws, mud caked motorcycles and Indians out for an errand. Goats, cows and dogs ate scraps out of trash piles while monkeys climbed the incomprehensible tangle of power lines. It’s easy to see why power outages are such a large problem here.

We were the only visibly identifiable Westerners in the area. Every block scores of people would shout “Hallo” to try to grab our attention. Children in tattered clothes grabbed our arms asking for food money.

Back to the glimmering subway. We rode to the end of the line for a glimpse of real irony. First came the slum, a clutter of makeshift houses topped with tarps, bags and blocks. Poor people stacked on top of each other, sometimes literally in ramshackle two story construction of other people’s trash. Then a large stream of open sewage. Lastly, butting against the river of excrement, is the U.N. World Health Organisation’s building.

Shortly thereafter, our airconditioned metro slid quietly back underground.

After tickets, shots, flights, beer and countless hours of work, colleague and friend, Tristan and I made it into New Delhi.

A little too sick to elaborate much, but a collaborative slide show is in the works.

I’m looking forward to exploring a city I plan to call home.