We were to leave on the bus by 6:00 A.M., so we were waked before 5:00; breakfast was finished and we were all packed and ready to go before the bus arrived. No one seemed too certain about our transportation. Had Ashraf rented a bus just for us? Or a section of a bus? Would we have to ride as regular passengers? At least the vehicle would come to the compound to pick us up. It would have been difficult for us to carry all our heavy gear to the bus stop.

The bus, when it arrived, looked just like all other TATA (Indian made) buses, though we scrutinized this one a lot more carefully than the others we had seen, since it was "ours". The tires appeared to be decent, the bus was painted with gay designs, and the interior was taken up with bench seats; it looked like any bus, anywhere. All our gear, including our duffels, was to ride up on the roof. The staff quickly moved our things up there and tied them down. We would carry our packs with us on the bus.

As we were getting on, we were briefed - Ashraf had done his best, and all he could come up with was this public bus. We didn't have a section of the bus to ourselves; we were just regular passengers who had paid 20 rupees apiece to ride to Srinagar, 125 miles away. So this would be a taste of real, down home rural Indian transportation! I remember looking forward to the experience. We had, after all, been very sheltered so far on the trek. This bus ride would be just the same for us as it was for the local people. There was a funny sign in the bus. On one side, the seats were wide enough for only two people, and the sign said "Ladies Only". I think the idea is to prevent harassment of women riding alone. "Eve Teasing" is a persistent problem in India. Only recently I read about the passage of a strict law intended to more effectively discourage men from patting, pinching, bumping into and generally bothering women in public. Rob and I sat on that side, and at first he felt a little nervous (he didn't look much like a lady after all, not even a Western one!). Of course no one ever said anything, and people sat wherever they wanted to sit. The seats in the other row were intended for three people side by side. Our group all chose seats together at the front, and off we went.

After picking up several passengers at the regular bus stop in town, the bus finally drove away from Kishtwar. I felt an enormous sense of relief. I felt as though I had escaped from a whole Pandora's box full of unpleasant things, most important of which was the failed trek. Now that we were on the road away from Kishtwar I felt that I was headed for better experiences, that things would surely improve, that perhaps we might even have fun during the rest of our stay in India. Before long I also began to feel distinct pains in my knees. Unfortunately, my legs were longer than the space available for them; those seats had been placed with shorter legged passengers in mind. My knees were mashed up against the back of the seat in front of me, and so they remained all day. When I first realized that my legs were too long for the space I had to put them in, I worried that the discomfort would really be a problem during the long day of traveling. I shouldn't have worried. That discomfort was destined to pale rapidly into insignificance.

It is hard for me to describe that bus trip. It stands out in my mind as an unforgettable experience, albeit one I would go to great lengths to avoid repeating. But in my memory the events of that long day blur together. It took almost nineteen hours to travel the 125 miles from Kishtwar to Srinagar. The bus was extremely crowded. We had been the first ones on, so we had seats. The unlucky ones had to stand or sit in the aisle for the trip. One old couple was especially pathetic. They looked like farm folks. She had an eye infection, and perhaps they were going to see a doctor in Srinagar. They found a place to sit on a box at the front of the bus, and as the day wore on the old fellow got sleepy and had a hard time staying upright. For a while I switched seats with Scot, who was on the other side of the aisle and extremely cramped in a three-person seat. While I was sitting there the old gentleman fell asleep and collapsed on my knee. I let him nap. He seemed like a friendly man and offered to share his food with us (an offer we declined). His wife appeared to be frightened of us though; she crouched behind her husband, and once when Scot offered them some food, she was afraid to take it. She seemed especially intimidated by Scot, for some reason none of us could fathom.

Something that I remember vividly is the heat. Once the sun came up the day was a real scorcher. Open windows meant more air, but also more choking dust. It was a no-win situation. Our group was dressed in not-very-clean outdoors clothes, and although we all perspired and got coated with dust, our plight seemed preferable to that of the people who looked as though they had gotten all dressed up to go to Srinagar (which was, after all, very much the "big city"). Riding in that bus was like sitting in an oven. The road turned and twisted through the hills, and when the sun happened to fall on my lap, it was as though someone had turned on the broiler. Of course we perspired and got thirsty. Thirst was a big problem; we had water in our bottles, but what could we do if we needed to go to the bathroom? I had the sinking feeling that my next chance at toilet facilities would be in Srinagar, so although I got thirstier and thirstier, I drank nothing. I preferred thirst to wetting my pants, after all! Luckily I didn't realize how long the trip would be. It had taken us nine hours or so in the taxi, including a long stop for lunch. Of course Mario Andretti wasn't driving this bus, which in any case was not as maneuverable or fast as a taxi. But we believed that we'd be back at the lake in about twelve hours. Good thing we didn't have a crystal ball! We would have become terribly depressed.

Still, all was not grim. No matter how slowly or uncomfortably, we were making progress towards our goal. Visions of clean beds, showers, toilets, uniodinated water and cool breezes sustained me as we bumped and sweltered along. Then we came to an abrupt stop. Was there another vehicle coming towards us? Being in a bus ourselves added a whole new dimension to the excitement of passing a bus on the one-lane dirt highway. The experience of inching past with only inches to spare was life threatening and heart stopping, and certainly broke up the monotony. But no; this time there was a truck parked sideways across the road, blocking our way. At this point, the road curved to the left ahead of us and disappeared around the shoulder of a hill. It traveled along for a mile or so, then completed a giant hairpin turn and wound back in our direction along the side of the next hill, so that we could see the route we would soon be traveling, parallel to us but perhaps half a mile away across a deep canyon. We heard a deep rumbling noise off to the right, across that canyon; and as we looked, a big land slip moved majestically down the slope - a slip that originated at the highway! As part of our road slid away towards the bottom of the slope, we realized with a sinking feeling that our luck had run out, and we might be stuck in that spot for a very long time.

We had been in India long enough, and encountered enough snags, to be able to view another delay philosophically (more or less). People responded to the setback differently. Scot and Ashraf set off to hike down the road over to the slip, to see what was happening. They had a vague idea of perhaps being able to hire a vehicle stuck on the far side of the slip; if we could carry our things past the dangerous spot on foot and continue in another vehicle, we might salvage the day. In any case they would be able to see the slip up close, and talk with the crew that we could see working on the road. Rob got out his binoculars, and several of us took turns looking across the canyon. The people over there seemed to be trying to build up the road again, but periodically another slip would start, and a bit more of our road would be lost down the canyon. This was potentially a longer delay than if a slip had fallen across the road and blocked it; we could imagine that it would take a while to rebuild a road that had vanished. The crew might even need heavy equipment; heaven only knows where they would have found the machinery.

Nat and Colleen sat in the bus, reading and staying as cool as possible. I felt restless and was glad of the opportunity to stretch my legs, and under my spread umbrella I walked up the road a little distance. Many people had gotten out of the bus. One man took his two little girls to the side of the road and they relieved themselves. Fine for three year olds, I thought, but what about me? Ann walked up and we discussed the problem. What would we do if we had to stay there overnight? Even the most hardworking, faithful bladders can only be depended on to a point. On one side of the road a precipitous slope reached down to the canyon bottom. The other side was almost a cliff. The vegetation consisted of stunted shrubs and scrubby grass. We decided that, if it became necessary, we would build a fort with our umbrellas. We would invite the few Indian women who were on the bus to join us, and one or two women at a time could use the fort, while the rest stood guard. So far so good, though. For the moment everything was holding up.

Fred and Gerry had their Sony Walkman tape players on, and Fred let me listen to his for a while. It was playing an orchestral piece, I think by Bach; and as the music throbbed and crashed dramatically, another slip slid down into the canyon. That was the way to watch landslides happen! It did seem to me though, dramatic appeal aside, that one slip after another was making it impossible for the crew to make any progress on the road.

After a while, perhaps an hour or more, the bus driver started up the bus and drove past the truck, maybe a mile down the road to where the road began to curve back along the next hillside, towards the slip. Since we were now on the same side of the canyon as the slip, our view was almost nonexistent. A few of us decided to walk up the road to the slide. Others preferred to stay in the bus. I chose the bus. I don't remember exactly why, except that I was so terribly hot and it was marginally cooler inside the vehicle. Scot returned to us, explaining that the stone supports that shored up the road had fallen away, but some of the road was left. There seemed to be no chance that he could hire another vehicle. The heat and stress were not good for him; he was feeling sick again, and his face had swelled slightly. The infection that had been bothering him was not yet defeated, and we urged him to rest. Scot later confessed that he and Ashraf had never really thought they would be able to hire another bus, but neither of them felt like facing the rest of us in the midst of yet another problem. Of course none of us blamed them for the landslide! But they both felt responsible for the trip, and for us, and they just felt terrible that yet another mishap had occurred over which they had no control. Rather than face us and our questions about what was going to happen, how we would get to Srinagar, how the road would be fixed, etc., they decided to walk away for a while.

We were lucky at that slip. Just enough road was left to tempt a courageous bus driver. Our bus moved once; we thought the driver was going to try it, and most people got off the bus. Another bus came across the dangerous area in the other direction, after unloading all its passengers. Rob saw that crossing, and refused to even consider staying in our bus, should our driver make the attempt. I stayed on the bus, as did Nat and Colleen. I believed that if the driver thought he could make it, he probably could. But when our driver decided to take the chance, he told us all to get off the bus. The first vehicle over had caused more of the road to crumble, and as our bus crept up to the dangerous place, I could see that the road was about the same width as the bus. Even more dangerous than the narrowness of the road was its instability. Periodically a bit more would slide away; the edge was just dry dust, with nothing at all to support it. If a bus caused too much road to crumble, down it would fall, with nothing to arrest its plunge until it reached the floor of the canyon, a few hundred feet below.

We all trudged across the slide area. Our bus would be in danger for perhaps a hundred feet. We stopped at the other side and turned to watch, as the driver revved the engine and, I suppose, gathered his courage. Then he made his move. Across he came; once he committed himself to the crossing, he dared not stop. One side of the bus nearly brushed the side of the cliff. On the canyon side, I think less than six inches of crumbling dust stood between the outermost tires and the edge. In one magnificent rush, the bus traversed the slide, and we cheered and clapped as it came to a stop! I don't think the driver spoke any English, but I'm sure he knew what we were saying when we praised his courage and skill as we got back on the bus. As I've mentioned, we met a few really good drivers while in India. But this guy was more than a good driver. Piloting that bus across the slip was a very brave thing to do.

We lost more than two hours because of the slip. It could have been much worse; we had all had depressing visions of spending the night on the bus, and those visions could easily have come true. Talking about the slip, discussing our driver's bravery, and feeling elated at moving once again with the wind in our faces buoyed us up for a while. All too soon though, the ride slid back into its previous nightmarish sameness, except that now we were hotter, tireder, thirstier, more cramped, and more in need of a bathroom than before. We felt that we had reached a welcome landmark when we finally bumped up onto the paved road again. We still had a long way to go, but our chariot-without-shock-absorbers would get a little more bearable as the road gradually improved.

In the afternoon we stopped at a village. Our driver wanted to take a break, and we all got out to stretch our legs. Some people bought sodas; I abstained. There was no comfort to be found in that village. As we drove on, I began to wonder if I was going to injure myself internally. I have rarely been so uncomfortable in my life. The leg room seemed to have shrunk by at least half since the morning. The heat was still unbearable, my thirst was incredible, my need for a bathroom was overwhelming. To top it all off, I began to itch. I had sweated prodigiously earlier, and though now I was so dehydrated that I had almost stopped sweating, I thought I might be developing a prickly heat rash. Everywhere my backside touched the seat, I itched ferociously. So I scratched as well as I could, and bounced along sunk in a pit of misery. Of course I had company all around me, though it didn't help a bit.

Around dark the driver stopped again for dinner. Scot suggested we all get out and have something to eat and drink. This town was bigger, and boasted a real restaurant. I would have preferred anything cooked by Sibra, whose cooking I trusted. I wasn't really hungry anyway, but any seat not in a bus sounded good to me. First thing I did when I got inside the restaurant was to ask about a bathroom. Yes, there was one! I walked out of a door in the back of the restaurant, and found myself on an elevated sidewalk outside the building in the dark. I had my pack with me, so I fished out a flashlight, and walked to the right as I had been directed. The restaurant was in a long building, filled with other businesses (or residences, I couldn't tell). I passed several doors, and finally reached the end of the building - the last door was the one I was seeking. I think that bathroom took the prize. It stands out in my memory as the dirtiest, filthiest, nastiest public restroom I encountered in India. As you may imagine though, after too many hours of doing without, I was in no mood to be fussy.

Back in the restaurant, Scot ordered food for us all - vegetables, bread, tea. The food was distinctly uninspired and most of us were too tired to be hungry, but it felt great to rest. Isn't it funny how sitting down can feel so good after spending a whole day sitting down in a vehicle! The leg room was such a joy. We all ate something, and several of us visited the facilities with thanksgiving in our hearts. We discussed a mutual problem; I was not the only itchy one in the group. Everyone was afflicted with itches on the parts of their anatomies that had come in contact with the bus seats. When we got a chance later to examine ourselves, we discovered that our lower backs and buttocks were all covered with little red bumps, and flea bites were diagnosed. Hardly a major problem - just one misery on top of a pile of miseries that made it tough for us to force ourselves back into that bus for the last lap of the drive.

Many people tried to sleep on the bus. It was difficult, as there was almost no room, but people leaned up against other people and we all made the best of things. The desert air got much cooler after the sun went down. The coolness was refreshing after the heat of the day. We drove through the long tunnel again, and down into the Vale of Kashmir. The air grew moister as we passed irrigated fields, and we could smell flowers and growing things as we approached Srinagar. Finally we arrived in town. The bus pulled up, and when I looked out Mrs. Kumarr was standing on the sidewalk! We were at her house. She was certainly a sight for sore eyes. What a contrast! We were all incredibly filthy and exhausted. She looked so fresh and cool in a clean sari, and she was also in much better shape mentally than any of us. She took charge as we stumbled around on the sidewalk in a daze, exulting in our release from that bus-shaped prison, rejoicing in the feel and smell of the grass and trees. Someone saw to it that our gear was unloaded, and our bus roared away into the night, to deliver the other sufferers to their destinations. Taxis appeared, and we were whisked away to the boat landing at Dal Lake. We had thought we would never see that place again - now it looked like home. Manora Houseboat shikaras were waiting for us, and we were solicitously bundled into those luxuriously padded seats. How indescribably soothing it was to be paddled over the cool water, how relieved we felt to see our houseboats again - it was like coming home to the best place in the world. The carpets and furniture inside seemed like something out of a dream. The toilet! The shower! Hot water! How can I tell you how wonderful it felt to wash my dusty, itchy self? Just the best feeling you can imagine. Washing was the first and last thing I did before I climbed into my bed and passed out.