Leh

Hello all

I have just returned from a trip to Pangong Tso, a very beautiful lake near the Tibet border. The trip involved driving over the world's third highest pass, Chang La. However, its ranking might be, slightly, incorrect, for -- according to my dad -- I was wrong in my earlier blog when I said that Taglang La at 5,328m was the world's second highest pass, as he has measured the Xuegu or Suge La pass in Tibet (N 29 52 55.5, E 90 07 58.3) by GPS to be 5,431m. If my dad is right (and whose parents are ever wrong?) this would make Chang La the fourth highest... I think. But I don't intend writing to the Indian government to put it right on this one.

Apart from seeing beautiful scenery and exploring the lake, I also had the delight of travelling with -- whom I can only describe as -- India's equivalent of Mr Bean. He was a terribly sweet chap from Bengal who had come to Ladakh without telling his wife and child, who were waiting at home thinking he was on business in Delhi, while he was having a super jolly touring the area and visiting the local attractions! My Mr Bean had a tendency to get extraordinarily excited; literally running around manically, smiling inanely. For instance, when we finally arrived at Pangong Lake, he suddenly flung open the door of the jeep and jumped out, running zigzags, helter skelter towards the shore, his arms flailing in the air, giggling loudly. At the water edge, he turned to face us and punched the air in delight, his blue rayon trousers catching the sun's rays.

During the drive he also tended to murmur to himself, laughing aloud and pointing. Or make helpful comments, such as "See... rain" when the sky started spitting. To which all the passengers smiled and nodded politely in silent agreement. At the start he had seemed particularly thrilled to learn that I was English as he had a rather ample selection of Elton John songs on tape. (Although he was also rather partial to pan pipe music.) And it was with enormous pleasure and satisfaction that he decided to share his music tastes throughout the duration of the journey, insisting that the driver play his cassettes . I was a little naughty. By this point, I had made friends with my two co-passengers in the back -- in particular Snehal -- and I was pretty sure that their music tastes were not in tune with our Reg Dwight fan. So when Elton hit the speakers I started singing along, which encouraged Mr Bean even more. I can only describe Snehal's expresssion as being pained. And Ken was actually physically sick (although he claims it was altitude sickness).

I also did a number of other things in Leh: visited some Gompas, climbed up to the Palace and castle, watched the sunset from the Stupa. And bought two Kashmir rugs. I learned too late that the Dalai Lama was in town and so didn't get to see him. I also failed to go on a trek (there is long, boring story here) and instead came back to Delhi this morning.

Flying out of Leh is a nightmare. You arrive at the airport and have to queue to get through security actually to enter the terminal. Then you have to queue to check in. Once checked in, it is more queueing to get through the departure gate. First the men's one (from which I was sent away) and then the ladies.

In the meantime, it was extremely unclear whether you could take hand luggage on or not. Some signs said no hand luggage at all was allowed. Some said no hand luggage allowed before 22 August (today is 23 August). Other signs said ladies' purses/bags were allowed. Meanwhile, some people were re-queueing to check in hand luggage that had not been allowed through the departure gate.

Once through the departure gate, hand luggage and bodies were searched a second time. (On each occasion the ladies are searched behind a small wooden screen to protect our modesty.)

Then -- once all these security formalities had been completed -- we had to identify the luggage which we had only just checked in.

But mine wasn't there.

I looked and looked and looked. The flight was due to leave in the next 10 minutes.

Eventually, I hailed an attendant and explained to her that my rucksack was missing. There was a strained expression on her face, as she summoned all the porters and attendants and commanded them to go on a mad expedition for my bag. (While I prayed that I wasn't being a dappy cow and had simply failed to recognise it.) They looked high and low, pulling bag after bag out, calling for me to identify it or not. They went through the group luggage; the luggage for later flights; the luggage for different airlines. Etc. Everyone watched this from the departure lounge, wondering what on earth was going on.

The short and long of it was that the whole flight was delayed because no one could find it. It eventually turned up -- of course in the last place we looked -- in the bottom of one of those luggage trucks: it had been loaded on without being checked.

And here I am back in Delhi. I have a train tonight to Amritsar. There weren't any first, second or third class berths available. So for the first time, I am really roughing it and going sleeper, ie cattle class.

Hasta luego.

Bises