I Expected Desert – Busride from Manali to Leh, India

I was as prepared for the journey from Manali to Leh, India, as my parents were for my birth. When I was born, they hadn’t had a baby shower, my mom hadn’t had Lamaze classes, and my dad was intoxicated from a Christmas party.

As I entered the jeep at two o’clock in the morning in sandals, see-through emerald Aladdin pants, and an onyx tank-top, the man who took my luggage said the seventeen-hour drive to Leh would probably be cold. I told him not to worry, I had the skin of the Hulk, and I’d manage.

If the man had just said the word “Snow,” I might have prepared myself as if I were climbing Mount Everest. However, I slipped off my sandals and fell asleep in the front seat of the jeep as content as Barbie.

Although my sheer pants provided as much warmth as an icicle, I adjudicated that as I wasn’t afflicted with explosive diarrhea or barking bloody feces, I was as happy as an orphan adopted by Oprah Winfrey. The other passengers didn’t share my enthusiasm.

The French remained immersed in their blanket, the Brit was reduced to an infantile state, and the Aussies were so assured of our impending death that one of them deemed it logical to smoke a joint in the snow to tranquilize himself into a soothed state. Instead, as we skidded over the snow towards the edge of the cliff, he assumed the cracked character of one with Paranoid Personality Disorder.

When our driver desisted driving at eight o’clock at night, I asked what was happening. Earlier, while we had sat like perplexed dung beetles, he had exited the vehicle for twenty minutes to have a conversation and for ten minutes to relieve himself. He replied that we were staying the night at the surrounding tent community.

”Excuse me, but can we please get our bags down from the roof? A few of us have sleeping bags,” the French female requested.

”Ya, I actually have a shirt with sleeves in my bag,” I said.

”No, bags stay on roof,” he said and then stalked off like Hitler.

The Brit cried.

We crept into what looked like a circus tent to discover a stove and sleeping areas.

“Blanket,” the Brit said and thrust money at the owner. He burrito-wrapped himself and then pronounced, “Chai,” between shivering lips. The rest of us relapsed in conversation while he curled into the fetal position.

The next day the snow shifted to desert and our progression was impeded by road blockades and detours instead of arctic conditions more suitable for polar bears than Westerners. Our journey, originally supposed to last seventeen hours, endured for thirty-two. We later learned that the pass closed as we were on it.