The landlady's face is blank. It shows fear. Humiliation.
Greed and cold hearts
Like a bunch of aggressive teenagers, a few tourists are standing around the landlady, gesticulating. It's obviously about the price to be paid. For overnight stay and dinner and packed lunch the price is 16 francs. Some of the youngsters think that the price is too high, that they want to pay less.
Avarice and greed have always attracted the creators of great literature. Since the Christian Middle Ages they have been considered "root vices", and there are haunting pictorial depictions of greedy people deformed to the point of caricature. But not everyone who accumulates wealth necessarily has to be a scrooge as well. Why people tend to be stingy, overly thrifty and self-damagingly renounce pleasure is the subject of sociological and psychoanalytical theories in abundance. We are more interested here in the forms of greed and avarice in literature. (from NZZ – Avarice robs man of everything, even the voice)
On this beautiful morning, generosity and fairness would be a gift from God, only that God is still asleep and does not care about the vices of ordinary people.
So it does not even take half a second until a violent conflict breaks out between avarice and justified anger. Eventually it gets very quiet. The communication takes place only non-verbally. I don't know if the message has arrived. Probably not.
Is there anything else to add? Probably not. When friendly people, owning little or nothing compared to us, are confronted with cold hearts, they are defenseless. Avarice and greed manifest themselves in many ways. Even here, in this beautiful place.
It's so sad.
A bad end to this wonderful trek.
Bus trip with an adventurous lady
So I'm waiting for the local bus again, meet Anna, the shy English woman who also wants to go back to Leh. But waiting is also exciting. An old woman appears, heavily laden, but with an expression of life and kindness on her face.
One wants to hug her.
So it is, but while the bus makes groaning, rattling and squeaking noises, the conversation with Anna is so stimulating that time flies by.
She has recently retired and lives in Surrey, but has previously taught English in all sorts of impossible places around the world. Imagine being a teacher in Sudan, Morocco, China, India and probably in other places, at times when no woman would have dared to do so.
Real British understatement at its finest. This woman was not afraid of anything or anyone, but she makes such a reserved and humble impression. I could listen to her for hours.
And so she tells of times long past when the world was different. In many ways better than today's, but not for adventurous women who just didn't want to stick to the rules at the time.
There are wonderful books in this regard that every globetrotter should have read. They tell of courageous women, whose daringness in realizing their dreams is in no way inferior to that of their male colleagues.
A few of the most interesting stories are described in the adjacent book. Anna would have deserved a separate chapter in it.
Let's enjoy the rest of our lives
Yes, and then, after almost four hours, trapped between seats, legs and pieces of luggage, while the ass slowly becomes numb and the hands ache from holding the backpack (I just thought that miraculously nobody got sick, but then the little girl next to me is puking her lungs out), we reach Leh, the hectic, noisy, dusty Leh, and feel at home.
We take a leisurely stroll towards the center, talk about this and that and what we intend to do in our lives, and then, as so often, say goodbye.
Let's enjoy the rest of our lives, Anna!
And she's gone ... goodbye!
Hotel stories
A strange surprise. Although a room was reserved for me in my hotel, it suddenly costs twice as much as before. The person in charge at the reception - we know each other well in the meantime - apologizes formally, but the decision of his boss is not to be changed.
Sometimes it is appropriate to resist an obviously clumsy method of pulling over the table. After one hour I find a new place to stay, much closer to the centre and yet quietly located and surrounded by trees and garden and very nice people.
So then the last time up the Fort Road, with my two backpacks, which seem to get heavier every time. But the guesthouse is ok, I have a huge room on the top floor, with hot water and a TV, which must have been outdated already in Napoleon's times. But that doesn't matter, I am not here to watch TV.
The way from the centre to Dorje Guesthouse is only a stone's throw away, but on a dirt road where the air is impregnated with dust. After two weeks in Leh my lungs must look like those of a 19th century coal miner.
Basically, only the main roads are asphalted, all secondary roads are dust hells, mainly consisting of holes, deep ditches (which should be avoided at night), boulders and dust. Every vehicle passing throws a cloud of dust at you, to which you are hopelessly exposed (unless you wear a protective mask like the Chinese tourists). The result is a permanently blocked nose and constant sneezing.
Nine o'clock in the evening the mobile phone rings, the old hotel has decided to generously offer me the room at the previous rate.
Sorry, man, too late!
Weird saints
On the way to the centre I hear a noise from far away, the sound of drums and strange instruments that I cannot identify.
An orange-blue backdrop dominates the city center. Where normally dense columns of vehicles fight their way, there is a colored procession in the corridor. Bearded men with grim faces under their turbans walk measured steps past the onlookers. Behind and in front of them wreathed vehicles pave the way. I would love to know what religion men belong to. The turbans and beards are reminiscent of Sikhs, but are there Sikhs here? My question is answered with a shrug.
So the question remains open.
Fictitious sword fights are carried out in the middle of the street. The grim faces of the blue-robed fighters suggest a serious argument.
P.S. Matching Song: Black Honey - Crowded City
And here the journey continues ...
