Our wakeup call came on Friday at 5:00 A.M. I was already up, and had taken my shower. The last hot shower for a while, I thought. Farewell, Shower! We got our duffels packed up and out to the lounge on time, and had a light breakfast. As I used the toilet for the last time before leaving the houseboat, I thought, Farewell, Toilet! I figured I would miss Toilet more than Shower, after all. I had been flirting with diarrhea on and off since Delhi, and I was afraid that I was in for some uncomfortable times. But I took my medicine, stayed away from fruit, and hoped for the best.
Our duffels had been taken away by shikara to be loaded into our taxis. While we waited to be picked up ourselves, I wrote out a few last postcards to be given to the houseboat people for mailing, and thought about the description of the day's activities in the Mountain Travel itinerary; "Drive from Srinagar to Kishtwar on the Jammu/Srinagar highway. From lunch today until the return trip to Delhi on DAY 29, meals are included. Camp near Kishtwar." The morning was breaking and the lake looked like molten gold; the scene was truly idyllic when finally we embarked in our shikaras for the last ride from the houseboat to the landing. I was a little sad to be saying good-bye to our charming accommodations and hosts, but anxious to begin the next phase of our adventure.
Four taxis had been ordered for us, and they were to have been waiting, already packed with our duffels, when we arrived at the landing. We disembarked from our shikaras to find a pile of our duffels, a crowd of curious onlookers, and no taxis. They arrived after a half hour or so, we and our duffels were safely stowed away, and off we roared in a cloud of dust. Rob and I were in the back seat of one taxi, with Colleen in the front (the most exciting seat by far!). Ann and Mary shared a second taxi with Nat, Scot and Jim were in a third, and Fred and Gerry brought up the rear.
We settled in for a long drive. It would take "all day" to reach Kishtwar. The precise time the drive would take was unknown. For a while the road was paved, but for many miles it was not; landslides could block the road, conceivably delaying us for as much as a day, or more. Mechanical failures could not be ruled out. We hadn't yet driven on a highway in India, and we didn't realize how chancy every trip is. The actual distance to be covered was about 125 miles.
Our taxi driver quickly established himself as the Mario Andretti of Indian taxi drivers. He seized the lead early in the day; he lost it a few times, thanks to bad luck on the road, but in the end he was the winner. He was one of the most aggressive drivers I have ever been in a car with; he was a good driver, too. We roared away through Srinagar tooting and passing at every opportunity, and soon left the other taxis behind. The road out of Srinagar was pleasant. It was wide enough for two vehicles, well-surfaced, and passed through pretty fields and orchards. Cows, goats and people were everywhere for a while, but as we passed the outskirts of town the population thinned, the irrigation system stopped, and the scenery changed. The road began climbing in switchbacks through arid, stony hills. We were climbing out of the Vale of Kashmir. Around us in the distance we could see majestic mountains; we wondered if they were the mountains we would soon be walking through.
The landscape we drove through between Srinagar and Kishtwar was composed of one precipitous hillside after another. A tremendous amount of work is required to build and maintain roads in that region, and much of it is done by hand. I understand that most of the country we saw was once forested, but the forests are gone, cut for fuel, and landslides, or "slips", are an enormous problem. Some of the slips are so large and old that they have official names, and signs by the road mark them for the traveler. It does not take a discerning eye to spot a slip. Suddenly there appears an area which may be small or may cover acres, above and below the road, that is totally devoid of vegetation or large rocks - just a slope of unstable looking dusty soil, poised ready to fall. Along the edges trees, nearly undermined and ready to topple, lean helplessly downslope. I found slips fascinating to look at, and frightening. Often we could see soil moving and sliding even as we drove by, and roads are constantly being blocked by slips.
The portion of the Jammu/Srinagar Highway near Srinagar is a well-maintained road, and kept free of obstacles as much as possible. I assume that so near the city some heavy equipment is available to help move blockages from the road. Also the military uses that road; and it seemed to us that whatever the military needed, got first priority for maintenance and repair. We passed a few military convoys, nothing particularly large, nothing that caused us delay. The military moves around a lot up there in northern India. Kashmir's international border is with Pakistan; it has not been very long since there were hostilities in that area. To the east, Ladakh, where we were headed, borders on China; that is an even more militarily sensitive area. When most or all military supplies and personnel have to be moved by truck, the roads must be kept open.
Caption(The Road to Kishtwar, and Proposed Route to Ladakh)
Near Srinagar we did see signs of progress in the fight against slips; a few big ones had been stabilized and planted with vegetation, and signs proudly proclaimed that such-and-such a slip was stabilized. What a job that must be! A never-ending task, with so many established slips to stabilize at large effort and expense, and new slips probably appearing every day.
As soon as the highway began to climb into the hills, it began to twist and turn; soon the dropoffs were impressive, and the turns abrupt. Most of the curves are blind, and to keep going at a reasonable pace, cars are forced to take turns wide. So drivers blow their horns (or are supposed to) before entering a curve, to warn oncoming cars. A similar system is in effect in the mountains in Switzerland, and it seems to work satisfactorily. Of course it is particularly important where roads are just one lane! There was little traffic, and we roared down the road at a pretty good pace, honking and zipping around blind curves and getting most interesting views down the cliffs for a few hundred feet. No guard rails, of course; in a few places though there were low stone walls at the outside of turns, but from what I could see, they had more to do with stabilizing the edge of the road and preventing further slips, than with keeping cars from going over the edge.
A novel form of driver assistance is offered by the Indian highway department; signs admonishing drivers, "Don't Lose Your Nerve On The Curve" or (Rob's favorite) "Don't Nag Me, Dear, While I'm Negotiating The Turn" or
Other than low, carved stone tablets giving mileage to points ahead, these were the only road signs. We found them amusing.
A few hours out of Srinagar we came to a landmark we had been anxious to see: the Jawarhar Tunnel through the mountains, at the Banihal Pass. It was supposed to be miles long, and once through it, we would really be outside the Vale of Kashmir. Of course, with Mario driving, our taxi arrived first at the tunnel. There were military vehicles parked around the entrance, and military personnel administering traffic. The tunnel had been built as a two-lane, two way tunnel, but for some reason only one side was being used, and traffic could only travel one way at a time; when we got there, it was our side's turn to wait. We waited there for a half hour or more, time for the rest of the group to catch up, and for those who felt the need to stretch their legs.
We understood that the Swiss had helped the Indians to build the tunnel. We had much admired Swiss tunnel building skills in Switzerland, and were anxious to see this example, so far from Europe. The Indian tunnel was not up to the standard of its Swiss counterparts. It was raining in there, and unlighted for most of the way. The walls looked very rough, the road surface seemed almost as rough as the walls, and huge dark openings appeared now and then, to one side or the other. It is a long tunnel, 1.55 miles, and not the jolliest place to be. We were all glad when near the end the lights were again working, and happier still to see daylight as we emerged.
Once out of the tunnel, the route was pretty much the same for a long time; arid hills, and the paved road winding along steep hillsides above a substantial river. We were surprised at the number of bridges spanning the river gorge. They were suspension bridges, built for foot traffic, and seemed sturdy and well-constructed of wood and stone. Ours was the only paved road to be seen however; all the roads visible on the other side of the river were of dirt.
Occasionally we passed through small towns, and these lent some interest to the trip. The construction of the buildings was similar to what we saw in Srinagar, but the buildings were smaller and dirtier. Some had roofs or walls of corrugated metal. Animals roamed the streets, people relieved themselves in ditches by the side of the road, and trash was everywhere. Attitudes towards trash are a lot different in India, than in the United States. The preferred method of trash disposal was the old toss-it-by-the-road-and-forget-it method that we are so conditioned against here. Because there was no other place to put it, we too grew accustomed to tossing our trash out the windows. Really, although it is unsightly, trash seems to do some good; bottles are picked up and turned in for a refund: cans, once the tops are removed, make dandy cups: food, and paper bags too, are eaten by dogs or cows. Only plastic probably goes to waste. I remember once throwing a paper bag containing mango peels out of a window. In less than a minute a cow vacuumed up my trash, bag and all, and was looking for more.
We stopped in one village for a break in the late morning, and for the first time experienced a bit of rural India. As soon as our taxis stopped, people began to gather around. Have you seen the movie Night of the Living Dead? Those of us who had were inescapably reminded of it as a group of old women, beggars, began to approach the taxi. They were dressed all in black, and they shuffled toward us very slowly but somehow implacably, in complete silence, holding out containers (for us to put money into). They were just harmless poor old ladies, and probably no where near as old as they appeared to be, but I found their appearance unsettling. Even more unsettling was the sure and certain knowledge that I needed to find toilet facilities somewhere. I was not desperate enough to consider using the ditch though, not yet anyway! I had some company in my plight, and Rob and Colleen accompanied me in the search. Lo and behold, we found a public bathroom! I was surprised that one existed.
Perhaps you know that one of the big campaigns Gandhi led was against disease and uncleanliness, and for good sanitation. He traveled everywhere with his personal portable toilet, and did his best to encourage people to stop spitting in public, and to use regular bathroom facilities instead of roadsides. Probably we can thank Gandhi for the public toilets we found. We were certainly grateful for their existence! At least they offered a measure of privacy. But you just cannot imagine the state of filth many were in. They were all of the "squat" variety; a hole in the ground, sometimes porcelain, sometimes not, with a little pedestal on each side for foot placement. Where water was available, there was usually a container of some kind beside the toilet. The container could be filled with water, and emptied down the hole after use to flush the toilet. I have no complaint about the basic style, but the condition they were in was often pretty gruesome. Most looked like they had been installed in 1947 and not cleaned since. But, to focus on the central concept here, we were exceedingly grateful for those toilets! Nevertheless, I vowed to limit my fluid intake strictly whenever we had to be on the road.
Not long after that village, we reached the end of the paved road, in Ramban. Here is the real beginning of the trek! I thought to myself. I kept thinking that thought. I felt that we were "really beginning" when we left Delhi for Srinagar, then again when we left our houseboat to drive to Kishtwar. I guess I was just anxious and excited. One might feel that "trekking" doesn't really begin until only feet are used for transportation. For me though, there was never really a "beginning" that I could point to. It was a continuum of increasingly primitive (difficult) means of transportation that included, but was not limited to walking. When I thought about this trip, before we arrived in India, I thought of it as consisting of discrete chunks. First, we would arrive and see something of city life, have an introduction to India. Then we would go trekking for three weeks. Then we would fly home. It just didn't feel like that when I was there. The whole experience was so intensely interesting, so different from my previous experiences, that the strangeness, not the method of transportation, became the most important aspect. The trip was unified into a whole for me by the fact that it was so different, every day, from anything that I had ever seen before. Walking or riding, staying in a hotel or houseboat or tent - these were just subdivisions of the overall whole that was my experience there. It's hard to explain. It was very different from what I expected.
Scot had warned us that the road would be rough and the trip uncomfortable, but so far we certainly had nothing to complain about. We began to notice one interesting aspect of the road, though. For quite a while it had been narrowing, and the inevitable result of narrowing a two-lane road far enough, is that it becomes a one-lane road. This has important implications when traffic is emphatically two-way! We were luckier than we yet realized to be in a taxi. All the other wheeled traffic we saw was a lot bigger than we were, and consisted mainly of public buses and trucks of various sorts, all made by "TATA", and all gaily decorated with ornate, colorful painted designs. We saw military vehicles too, also made by TATA but drab olive green instead of multicolored.
The road was not uniform in width. Sometimes it was a bit wider, sometimes a bit narrower, almost always clinging to the edge of a steep hill or cliff. When vehicles meet, going in opposite directions, they must find a way to pass one another. This creates a whole lot of problems, aside from the basic difficulty of finding a spot in the road wide enough for the two vehicles to squeeze by one another without one going off the edge, which is often crumbly and unstable. The advantage of being in a smaller vehicle, is that there are more places in the road wide enough for a bus and taxi to pass one another, than for two buses to do so. In Switzerland a very civilized system seems to be operative for these situations. Postautos, public buses, have the right of way and private cars back up until they reach the frequent pulloff areas, let the bus go by, and continue on the road. Two buses never meet by accident; they have radios and keep to schedules, and if they have to pass one another, they plan to do so in a place where one bus can safely pull off the road. If two cars meet, the uphill car has the right of way. I am no expert on Swiss mountain roads, but from what I saw, the system works well.
Someone ought to start a public relations campaign in India, to sell them on the benefits of the Swiss system. It seemed to me that the questions of where two vehicles should pass, and who should pass on which side (close to the hill or near the edge), are totally removed from the realm of vehicular and traffic questions, and elevated into the higher levels of ego and personal identity. Indian drivers seem to take these questions very, very seriously. To be the one to back up, is to be defeated indeed. Large chunks of time are devoted to heated arguments about who should back up; these arguments are ostensibly based on where the closest wide spot in the road is located, but determining the distance to some point out of sight down the road requires a subjective judgement, and the merits of the road can be discussed at great length (which wide spot is "better"?). Where two buses are involved, sometimes the passengers have opinions too, and get out of the bus to express them. It seemed plain to me though that when these questions arise, the driver is indeed the captain of the ship, so to speak, and his word is final law. There is a bottom line of reality to these arguments; a plunge down the hill or cliff would be fatal in many places.
Sometimes there seemed to me to be a clear advantage to backing up. The one to back up can park his vehicle (I never saw a woman driving in India) next to the hill, safe, and force the other fellow to take chances with the edge. Here pride really plays a part. The bus nearest the hill stays stationary while the other bus creeps past (often mere inches from the edge!). The safe bus driver is in a perfect position to relax and egg the other driver on; if the moving driver questions the safety of going past, what an opportunity to call his manhood into question! Interesting game. I saw some really good drivers in India. Those people knew where their vehicles were, how much room they took up, and where their tires were located on the road - and they had a lot of courage. By the way, the arguments were never conducted in English, but the conversational content could not have been clearer! Body language is wonderfully illuminating stuff.
You can see the advantage to being in a taxi; taxis are a comforting bit narrower than buses. Our fearless Mario continued to toot and pass, though not with his former abandon. I really felt as though we were in a race. Perhaps Scot had forgotten to mention to us that there was a prize waiting in Kishtwar for the first driver to arrive? Thinking back, I still don't understand his rush to get ahead of the others, because we all met at noon, at a government bungalow site (I think it was in Ramban) for lunch. Government bungalows, "Dak Bungalows", are a great idea. The Indian government puts up cabins in Kashmir (I don't know if the system extends to other parts of India) for travelers to use. We encountered some bungalows far away from civilization; this bungalow was in a little town, up on a hill. It was a large area, including several cabins for sleeping, and a public bathroom complete with running water. I think there is a fee for staying at the bungalows, at least at the ones in more traveled areas. After washing up in the bathrooms, we relaxed in comfortable chairs outdoors, under big shade trees, and enjoyed our lunch. This lunch was the first prepared by the staff that would be working for us on our trek. Our cook, Sibra, was usually employed as the Kumarr's personal cook. Colonel and Mrs. Kumarr live in Srinagar; Mrs. Kumarr works for Mercury Travel making arrangements for travelers. Col. Kumarr may do that also; he is a well known alpinist and has climbed some famous mountains. The Kumarrs let Sibra work for our expedition. We did not meet Sibra at lunch; he had gone on before us with most of the rest of the staff to get things set up in Kishtwar, but he prepared a tasty boxed lunch for us - chicken, vegetables, pastries, hard boiled eggs, juice. At lunch we did meet one member of the staff - Ashraf, our sirdar. A sirdar is a boss. Ashraf would be the person responsible for seeing that the rest of the staff did their work; he was a Kashmiri, a liaison between Scot and the crew. He spoke the local languages more fluently than Scot did; Scot worried about the overall plans for the trip, but Ashraf's job was to take care of the nitty-gritty details and to keep the staff happy and working efficiently. There was a perceptible social separation between Ashraf and the rest of the staff. He was definitely "The Boss". He was almost like another trekker, except that he could so conveniently speak the local language. He ate his meals with us, not with the staff, and he had a tent to himself, like our tents, while the staff slept in the mess tent or the kitchen tent. Ashraf was an interesting person. I grew to like him very much. He was probably in his thirties, handsome, and extremely fit. He worked in the winter as a ski instructor in the Gulmarg (in northern India, west of Srinagar). In India, that is a government position. Scot told me that Ashraf had competed for his job with thousands of other applicants (I believe 30,000 was the number Scot quoted!). I think the job carries with it a lot more status than a similar job does in the United States. Ashraf was obviously an educated and cultured person. He spoke English almost perfectly, with only a slight accent. I was told that Government ski instructors (perhaps all government employees, I don't know) aren't supposed to hold outside jobs. I suppose Ashraf took the job of sirdar to make extra money; also I'm sure to stay in shape, and to get up into the mountains that he loved. He was from Srinagar, and his wife and children (two daughters, I believe) lived there.
After lunch we all got gas, then the race was on again. The road, now unpaved, grew rapidly worse, and we began to have a better feel for what Scot meant when he called it a rough ride. It was hot, the sun was strong, and it hadn't rained for some time; the dust was unbelievable, very fine and choking. It got into everything, and made it impossible to keep the car windows open for long. We would open them briefly when the air in the taxi grew too hot and stuffy to breathe, then close them when we needed a rest from the dust. Actually, as long as we were alone on the road the dust was bearable, but when another vehicle was in front of us, it was truly ghastly. At one point we stopped to get water for the car at a stream that ran across the road, and Mary and Ann's taxi got ahead of us. Now we could understand why Mario tried so hard to stay ahead of the other taxis! We drove along in a blinding cloud of dust. Our clothes turned a uniform reddish-brown, and we had trouble breathing. We all wet bandannas from our water bottles and tied them over our mouths and noses, and that helped some. It was a little depressing to be so dirty. We were headed away from laundry facilities, of course. There would be water, we assumed, so we would somehow be able to wash ourselves and our clothes, but if clothes washed in the evening weren't dry next morning they would just have to be packed into our duffels wet. None of us had much in the way of clothes, either - there just wasn't room to carry them. Oh well.
Mario drove along as close to the leading taxi as he could get, hoping for a chance to pass. He honked ferociously at every opportunity but the other taxi would not get out of the way (as custom dictates he should if possible) so we spent some time in that cloud of dust before Mario was able to get to the head of the line again. He could have gone slower and kept out of their dust; that's what the other taxis behind us did. But he wanted to be first. Actually I felt it was fair that he be first; not just because I wanted to be free of the dust, but also because he drove so much faster than the other drivers. No one else could have kept up with him, so once he was ahead, no one had to breathe our dust. He got his chance to forge ahead at the first serious landslide we encountered.
We had driven past some slips across the road that had happened recently and were still being cleared, but we were always able to drive across without stopping. Finally we reached one that had just happened. Everyone stopped to survey the situation. The crews on hand were, I assume, local people who take the opportunity to make some extra money. All the road clearing is done by hand in almost every instance; heavy machinery is not usually available to do the work, so people turn out with shovels and pick axes. Some people move rocks; small ones are thrown over the side, big ones are split - by hand - until they are small enough to be carried. Two people at a time man each shovel (or "person" each shovel; women and children work along with men at these tasks). One person uses the shovel as we all would. The second person holds a rope that is tied to the shovel, and after the shovel is loaded with dirt, the person holding the rope pulls while the person holding the shovel pushes. I assume this method cuts down on effort and means that people can work longer without becoming tired. Perhaps there are just not enough shovels to go around. Maybe the local equivalent of the AFL-CIO requires one rope-holder for every shovel-wielder! After looking around for a few minutes, Mario saw his opportunity, and seized it. He motioned us to get back into our taxi quickly, and off we drove, while our fellow travelers were still admiring the slip. We got by without any trouble, and were in the lead once again, a lead we maintained for the rest of the drive.
The road got pretty bad before we reached Kishtwar. The potholes were impressive, the rocks large and frequent. We had to drive across several more slips being cleared, and several streams too. In some places the ruts were so deep that I wondered if the bottom of the taxi would clear the road. I really pitied the suspension - and the air cleaner! Rob was of the firm opinion that the taxi would need a major overhaul when it returned to Srinagar. Our poor driver would have to turn around and repeat the whole difficult drive to get home. Undoubtedly the drivers were well paid for that long and exhausting journey. Certainly our taxis had been chosen with care, with this trip in mind. They all appeared to be in fine shape, well cared for inside and out, and for once the tires were in good condition, too! We didn't often see healthy tires in India. Maybe tires were very expensive, or hard to get. Not far from Kishtwar we stopped for a moment at the crest of a high hill, to enjoy the view behind us along the valley. Rob got out his camera to take a picture of me, the driver and the taxi. Before the driver would let Rob take the picture, he insisted on getting out a rag and wiping off the front of his taxi and his license plate. I wonder if it was his own vehicle? He certainly took pride in it.
We reached Kishtwar about 5:00 in the evening. Kishtwar was a big town of about 30,000 inhabitants, we were told (I'm not sure I believe that high figure). We were so glad to see it! We were filthy and tired. We drove through town, the usual sort of market place, and on the far side came to the government bungalows where we would be staying. We had assumed we would be tenting out that night, but none of us was sorry that we'd get another night under a roof. The bungalows were inside a compound, complete with lockable gate. Prior arrangements usually have to be made with the person in charge to get in, and I suppose the place is kept locked up when no one is staying there. We drove into the compound, the driver helped us to unload our duffels, and off he went. We were astonished! We assumed he would spend the night there. But the next day was a religious holiday, and he wanted to get home, so he would go all the way back to Kishtwar, over that same grueling route, that night. We didn't realize he was leaving until he was gone. We never got a chance to really give him a thank-you, or a tip, for his great driving. I hope he was adequately paid. He was worth every rupee.
Our staff was there already, the kitchen tent had been erected next to one of the bungalows, and on the pretty lawn at the front of the compound our mess tent was set up. Everything was explained to us by a cheerful fellow who introduced himself as Yasim. Yasim was young, perhaps twenty, good looking though extremely thin (but strong). He was from the Gulmarg, and often told us about the beauty of his mountain home, in his heavily accented English. Yasim was a very nice guy, a real happy-go-lucky person. After I got to know them, I would have trusted Ashraf with my life: I would have had reservations about Yasim, because he seemed careless in certain ways, perhaps too casual about things. Yet when the chips were down, he was helpful and dependable. He was also quite a talker! A real kibitzer, as my grandmother would say.
Yasim explained to us that the cook and his helpers were in the kitchen tent preparing dinner, that the mess tent was where we would be eating our meals together, that we could choose whichever bungalow we wanted, that there was water and a bathroom inside each - cause for celebration! - and that warm water for washing would be brought soon. He told us that Kishtwar only enjoyed electric power for a few hours in the evenings, from 8:00 P.M. to 11:00 P.M. or so, and that yes, the chickens that we could see clucking and strutting about were part of our supplies. There was a bungalow facing the lawn with two large, identical rooms inside. Rob and I moved our stuff into one, Colleen moved into the other, and I singlemindedly set about having a wash. Really, there was nothing in the world I cared more about at the moment.
The bungalow was fronted by a long covered porch. The rooms were furnished; two beds, a fireplace, a couch, coffee table - everything extremely dusty and dirty, including the linens on the beds. In the back was the bathroom. There was a squat toilet, a sink with running water, and a pipe arrangement with a shower head. Like most of the bathrooms we were to encounter from now on, the shower was not enclosed, and the water just sprayed all around the bathroom. But who wants to quibble with running water? There was even a hot water heater! I would guess that its capacity was about ten gallons. It was an electric water heater, and since the electricity in Kishtwar was a brief daily event, hot water tended to exist more in theory than in practice. Sometimes I am less than terribly bright. I could see that it was an electric water heater, I knew the electricity was not on at the moment, so what did I do? Proceeded to use up most of the hot water washing, of course! I felt guilty about it later, but it felt grand to have that warm water. The pressure was almost nonexistent, but it was a lot more than I had planned for - I thought we left bathrooms behind in Srinagar, and this was like a gift straight from heaven. I washed myself, then I washed out my dusty clothes, and we rigged up a clothes line on the porch for drying. I have rarely felt so totally contented. The last part of the drive really was rough; it was comfortable and pleasant to be clean again, and to be able to relax on that pretty lawn and admire the flowers.
Colleen put her gear into her room. Rob felt that it would be impolite for us to claim a room for ourselves yet, before the others arrived and had a chance to express a preference. My feeling was that when they arrived they would probably feel that it would be rude for them to choose first since we had arrived first - and anyway, the rooms were all the same - but we left our things mostly packed and sat down outside. Yasim brought us tea and some odd Indian treats, unusual cookies, made out of what appeared to be puffed rice stuck together one layer thick, crisp, probably deep-fried but not at all greasy, and colored surprisingly in bright yellow, blue, green and pink!
We tried to make friends with the sheep that was tethered on the lawn. We surmised that he was also part of our larder, and we named him Lamb Chop to prepare him for his fate. (I think Rob thought I was a little morbid about poor Lamb Chop - but I was convinced that he didn't understand a word of English anyway!) As it turned out, Lamb Chop belonged to the man who was the caretaker at the bungalows, and served as the lawn mower.
The three of us talked about the drive, and all the time it got later, with no sign of our companions. We began to feel concerned about them. We had been ahead, but not by all that much. I remembered at one point we had barely escaped a slip, had driven by it while it was beginning, and saw it fall behind us. It had been impossible to tell if it was a big one or not, but we all realized that if the other taxis got caught on the wrong side of a big slip, they might easily be delayed for a day. I did not feel much worry about them, not about their physical safety, but I knew that they were all every bit as dusty and dirty and tired as we had been a little while before, and I felt so sorry for them, that they had to suffer for longer. After a few hours they all showed up in a group, dragging their tails and probably resenting us just a little bit for our luck. One of the taxis had broken an axle on the road, and they had all waited while it was replaced. Luckily the taxi carried a spare axle!
As accommodations turned out, there were rooms for everyone with no problem, but some of the buildings were in a separate compound a few hundred feet farther down the road. Scot assured Fred, Gerry and Jim, who would be staying there, that their stuff would be perfectly safe, but they were nervous about leaving all their gear where they couldn't watch it, and I don't blame them. Their stuff was irreplaceable and therefore precious. So Fred and Gerry left their gear in our room, and took their showers (cold) in our bathroom.
We were all grateful to have dinner and get to bed early. Unfortunately the room Rob and I chose was not chosen wisely. The kitchen tent, where Sibra the cook and his helpers slept, was right outside our window. They were up until quite late, first cleaning up after dinner, then talking. When the electricity came on, they had lights; our windows were barely covered with flimsy, inadequate curtains, so the light shone right in. After the electricity went off, they lit their lanterns. I got very little sleep that night. We all slept, I might add, in our sleeping bags; we unanimously deemed the sheets to be suspicious characters, not to be trusted.